


Resfeber

by Emono



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Basically the main quest as a fanfic, Breeding, Dragon!Dan, Dragon!Ray, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Dragonborn!Ryan, Dragons in human forms have both, Gratuitous Smut, Hermaphrodites, Human forms, M/M, Magic, Master/Pet, Mates, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Dynamics, Size Kink, Slow Build, Soul Bond, SwordSpirit!Michael, so you know SLITS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emono/pseuds/Emono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan must carve his own path as the Dragonborn and defeat Alduin before he devours everything humanity has ever known. Michael is his destined weapon, a soul trapped inside the sword that will defeat the World Eater. But they must grow strong, together, and close. Ryan is not only his true wielder, but his greatest love, and his only wish is to be useful. Love grows from all things and Ryan has great affection in his eyes.</p><p>Dan is a dragon as old as time, young among the Elders but he has seen the world when it was fresh. Ray is his charge, his sweet hatchling who warms his nest and his heart. He will do anything to protect his growing mate. But when Ray stumbles upon a sweet, fertile human boy with natural magic in his heart will he be able to resist breeding him? Or will he eat him instead? Will Dan take kindly to him bringing a curious human into their nest? </p><p>(aka: Ryan is the Dragonborn, Michael is a weapon with a human form, Dan and Ray fuck like bunnies, and Gavin becomes the Mother of Dragons)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dragonborn I

**Forgive me for all the links. I promise, this is won't happen a lot. I have a lot of disposition to cover, lots of boring stuff to get through, and then it'll be a lot better. I'm really sorry if they're annoying but I know there are people who want to keep up or need a refresher. Please try to enjoy it anyway :)**

 

**Olfrid and Bergritte have three children originally (Jon, Idolaf, and Alfhild). In this story, they had one more – Erens. He is Ryan’s father.**

 

* * *

 

 

-*-*-*-*-

 

**4E 181**

 

Ryan Battle-Born came into the world on the cusp of third century in the [fourth era](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Timeline). That week the news of his arrival seemed to follow with the gossip that proud Raven Rock had fallen due to depleting their ebony stores. It was an exciting and smug time to be in the city of Whiterun what with a new heir born to a [famous family](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Battle-Born) and a far city that had been claimed away from Skyrim years ago getting scandalously labeled as greedy. Whispers of a rebellion by the [Stormcloaks](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Stormcloaks) reached their walls and it only fueled the fire.

 

His aunts would always remember that time as ‘titillating’.

 

As he grew, Ryan never wanted for anything. Both plentiful and thin harvests passed him by filled with nothing short of heaping plates and feather stuffed pillows. The thickest furs made up his bed and only the finest spiced wine filled his cup. He never asked for any of it. He’d only lucked into being born into his clan, one of the two wealthiest and most influential families in [Whiterun](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Whiterun). Their name stretched past the walls of the city and was on the lips of those as far as Markarth.

 

Unfortunately, coin and power had put blinders on his parents. Once they had him they’d decided one was enough of a hassle. His life had quickly become dotted with a steady stream of midwives, tutors, nannies, and escorts. Thankfully, the [Eight Divines](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Nine_Divines) had foreseen his family’s detachment to him and had granted him a mind that flourished in being alone.

 

From the moment he could learn to read, Ryan had filled his room with literature. Myths, fairy tales, strategy guides, and (most favorably) history. Whatever he could get his hands on. While others rubbed elbows and gossiped at the dinner table, the young boy snuck scrolls and books into his lap to read between bites. He found to be a quick study in all things, not just books. From rune to sword, his head was greedy to be filled with _more_. His parents bragged about him being ‘gifted’, the word haunting him like a shadow as he grew into adolescents.

 

With the children aware of his last name, Ryan had often been pushed to be the leader in courtyard games. He’d taken to it like a fish to water. His mother had once told him that he had a drawing personality, whatever that was supposed to mean. His aunts said he had a glow about him that drew others in. Apparently he had a way of speaking that made people listen. Idolaf, his uncle, would just laugh and say he had the Battle-Born charm. Charm enough for everyone except his own flesh and blood, who did little but humor him. He didn’t mind. Early on he decided a few good friends were better than none.

 

He was raised with a particular set of beliefs, the only thing his parents insisted he learn. [Talos ](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Talos)and his false divinity, the impurity of other races, and the ignorance of Hammerfell leaving the Empire over something as stupid as a fake god. Why would they go against the very soldiers who swore an oath to protect them? The empire built walls and towers and sent troops to make their lives easier, not harder.

 

Ryan took no more thought to it than any other boy would have and nodded along.

 

He listened to his mother rave about the thievery of Elves and his father bark about the barbarism of Orcs and eventually it all sunk in. They weren’t like them. They weren’t Nords, not naturally anyway. They looked different with their short hair, pointed ears, and discolored skin. They spoke strangely and the few he grew up seeing had come off aloof or blatantly rude. They may not be evil but they were certainly _wrong_. They appeared as if they were going against nature itself so there was no other explanation for it. They bent energy into fire and lightning to harm others. Magic was synonymous with evil in their house.

 

It was just how the world was.

 

-*-*-*-

 

For the longest time he was content to learn and grow as young Whiterun lads were prone to do. He behaved himself as instructed. He went to feasts and meetings as quiet as any heir was supposed to be. He tried to follow his father, Erens, into the usual clan craft of blacksmithing. They all found out rather quickly he was terrible at it. Something about the heat always got to him. When he reached fourteen, he was officially released from his obligatory visits to the smelter to pursue more academic or battle-worthy skills.

 

It was the most freeing thing he’d ever felt in his young life. He played outside the rest of the day. At one point, he perched himself in the [Gildergreen](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Gildergreen) in the middle of the courtyard in the Cloud District and started writing a list in his little notebook of all the things he wanted to accomplish in the few warm months they had until winter cast its spell once more. Without the constant shoving into the forge, Ryan realized he would have all the time he could ever want to study. Beside the list of books and subjects he wanted to delve in to, he made a few marks and proceeded to write down all the lines of work he could go into when he grew up. A map maker, a wandering tutor, a scribe, a lawmaker, an advisor to the great Jarl.

 

At the end he paused before writing a single word larger than the rest.

 

_Adventurer_

 

-*-

 

He’d only been released from mandatory crafting lessons for one week before everything changed.

 

-*-

 

_'You have to know what is coming.'_

 

_He'd never known darkness like this._

 

_'You have to realize who you are.'_

 

_There was a tomb within his sight and inside it lay the treasure he sought._

 

_'Come find me.'_

 

_But it was guarded._

 

_'He stole me away from the sun and the fields. He locked me up here.'_

 

_The path was treacherous._

 

_'But I can help you.'_

 

_Sunken, dead faces glared at him from the shadows._

 

_'Be not afraid, for there is light in your heart and none can stand in your way.'_

 

_They clawed at him but he felt no pain, only determination to strike them down and let them rest in peace once more._

 

_'I wait for you.'_

 

_The lord of them loomed over him, horns casting shadows over his face._

 

_'Dragonborn.'_

 

Ryan ripped out of the dream with an agonized cry, tossing off the sheet in a fit of haste. His bedroom was far from dark with both moons so full and heavy in the sky. He could see every scattered paper and half-rolled scroll clearly enough to snap him back into reality. There was sweat all across his forehead and stray strands of hair stuck to to the damp, itchy skin. His hands were shaking and his heart thumped like a war drum in his chest, the rhythm rattling his very bones.

 

Something sharp and clear clicked together in his young mind.

 

Ryan stood from his bed and walked calmly over to wardrobe, fingers carefully plucking up a pair of shears. He stared intently in his filthy polished mirror and started cutting, the golden curls of his youth falling away to the stone floor. Though the air was thick and stubborn, he kept up until every ringlet was gone. After only a few minutes there was nothing but a choppy mess left behind. It was liberating. His mother had never allowed him to cut his 'beautiful curls' and it felt like the weight on his shoulders was being chipped away with every lock that fell to the floor.

 

Later he would realize that this was the end of his old life, and the start of a fresh one.

 

-*-

 

Ryan’s mother screamed at him for nearly an hour the next morning but he didn't apologize, not once. His head never grew another curl. Instead it grew gold and with a slight wave that allowed for him to lace into warrior braids when he was ready. He knew he would have to do something great to deserve them and he was up to the task.

 

-*-*-*-

 

From that moment on, Ryan started to question everything. He snuck around and listened in on his parents conversations, finding out about Ulfric Stormcloak and the stirrings of a rebellion. It ignited a fire within his little belly and he scrambled to get more academic literature, the kind his family had always forbid in the house because of their 'outrageous lies' or 'exaggerations'.

 

He read the truth about the Great War and how the cunning Elves overwhelmed the Empire and forced them to their terms, not at all the cordial story he'd been told by his tutors. He found out the truth about Hammerfell and how they'd struggled for their freedom, only to be divided and passed around like meat after the war ended. He found pictures and diagrams of the people and their weapons. They were a decorative and mystical race, he had only ever seen two his entire life and it had only been in glimpses on the street. He'd so rarely been allowed outside the city and now he could see why.

 

Ryan’s family didn't want him to see the truth of the world. The Empire was weak, arrogant. They bowed now to Elves for their follies and forced the rest of Skyrim to as well by brute force – not by choice and grace, as he'd previously thought. He learned a little about the Blades and how the White-Gold Concordat (which he'd always believed to be a calm settlement) had decided to rip them apart. It had also disqualified Talos from the Eight Divines.

 

It took Ryan almost a year to collect enough works on Talos to put together the real story. There was the Empire-filtered material to sift through along with the raw scratches on parchment written by native Nords from long before he was born. He demanded his father find him a language instructor for Ancient Nordic in both the runic and linguistic form so he could read absolutely everything that was available.

 

Talos grew into a hero within Ryan’s eyes. The man had unified not only Cyrodil but eventually all of Tamriel. There used to be the Nine Divines, he used to be in the pantheon with all legitimacy. There were priests who spoke to him, there were wonders associated to his name, and his achievements could be listed on a scroll as long as his arm.

 

Tiber Septum. _Talos._ Honorable, well-loved by his people. The first Emperor of the Septim Empire, a ruler for the common folk. He'd been the oldest recorded human to live, dying at one hundred and eight. He ascended to godhood and became the God of War and Governance, a worthy cause if any.

 

Ryan’s parents had always had a small statue set up for each of the Eight. Ryan even had his own for Stendarr in the corner, the aspect of justice always appealing to him. Now he was tempted to add to it. What was more Nordic than a God of War? Though he had never been prone to excessive violence, he felt the song of battle in his veins as much as anyone else. How could the empire rip Skyrim's once most sacred icon from them without so much as asking?

 

The more Ryan learned, the more he dreamed.

 

-*-

 

_'It's dark and cramped here. The cold seeps into me. I've been so carelessly hidden under stone and dirt like a prisoner. I must have done something wrong to deserve such a fate. Why did my last master stash me so? It has been so long...once, I thought he had done it to keep me safe. I’ve been told I was important, that I was needed - was that a lie? But if I was bad...then this must be a punishment. What have I done? I've only ever wanted to be good. Maybe I'm useless now. Maybe I wasn't wanted anymore. I was so strong...gods, how I want to prove I still am. I'm not broken. Please don't tell me I'm broken.'_

 

“Stop,” Ryan breathed out into the night, still buried deep within the dream, “You are...enough...”

 

_'You can hear me? You really can. Oh, blessed relief. Talos hear me prayers.'_

 

The rest of the day, Ryan replayed that sweet sigh in his head over and over.

 

-*-

 

_'It is not just I who calls. The entirety of Nirn is screaming for you. I am flattered you can hear my cry. I have been ignored for so long, I almost forgot I was here. We are not all good who calls, but we are many. Your name has been echoing through the life lines of the world so long that is scorched into the earth...it is written in the stars...it is burned into my skin. I am meant for you.’_

 

A sharp pinch silenced the voice.

 

Ryan jumped out of the reading chair he'd been in, staring up into his mother's stern face.

 

“What are you doing sleeping in here?” she hissed sharply, “We have guests. If you have time to sleep then I'll put you to work at the farm.”

 

“Apologies, Mother.”

 

“You looked so intent.” Her expression softened. “What were you seeing?”

 

“Not seeing, just listening,” he replied honestly.

 

Though she didn't understand, his mother nodded and left him alone with his forgotten book.

 

-*-*-*-

 

Ryan grew into his fifteenth year asking hard questions. The Battle-Borns didn't take kindly to one of their young ones speaking out so strongly so suddenly. He wanted to know why they followed the Empire, and if they supported the choices they had made. Did their clan throw their hat in with the [Thalmor](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Thalmor_\(Skyrim\))? Were they supportive of the Imperial Legion invading Skyrim to hunt down and kill the native members of the Stormcloaks?

 

That name struck up a fight with his father.

 

“They wish to liberate our country and allow us to make our _own_ decisions with _our_ land,” Ryan asserted.

 

“They are disloyal!” Erens bellowed, the entire household shuddering under the authoritative tone. “They are nothing but ungrateful heathens who bite the hand that feeds them!”

 

“That's just not true, Father, they-”

 

“We do not speak of Stormcloaks or their bastard leader in this house!” Erens slammed his meaty fist down onto the table, “I will not hear another word of this!”

 

Ryan purposefully softened his own tone, “Father, I beg of you to listen. Our long friends the Grey-Manes support the rebellion and if we just sat down to listen to them, maybe we would learn something. I only ask we broaden our minds as a clan...as a family.”

 

“I will not yield on this issue, boy.”

 

“Not even if it meant speaking to your old master, Eorlund, again?” he asked carefully, “I know you miss him, as he surely does you. We would have part of our family back.”

 

A faraway look came over his father’s face, nostalgia flitting through his eyes before his usual stony expression slid back into place.

 

“Your aunt needs another hand out on the farm with the wheat coming in,” Erens stated flatly, picking back up the knife he’d been sharpening, “I believe a week out there will do you good.”

 

-*-

 

That’s how his parents learned to shut him up. Ryan would be forced to go live with his aunt for two or three weeks at a time to be worked to the bone so that when he returned he was too exhausted to argue. It was effective to a point but his mind never slowed, not for an instant. The dreams stayed and so did his new found knowledge.

 

Though when Ryan tried to play with the Gray-Mane boy in the courtyard. He returned home with a bloody nose and a bruised ego.

 

-*-

 

“Why did he hit me?” Ryan asked for the third time, wincing as his mother ran a cold cloth over his face to get rid of the blood.

 

“Because,” she clipped out.

 

“Because _why_?” he insisted with the same curt tone.

 

“Because you are just too different,” Mother relented, taking the cloth she’d packed with snow and holding it up to his face to try and ease the swelling, “Our families stand for two different things now and it’s something we’ve all learned to deal with. You less than others.”

 

“But why?”

 

“ _Ryan_.” Her accent danced across the syllables. “The Grey-Manes support the rebellion of a man who has no business to the throne or causing such trouble. They do not support the Empire or the Imperial Legion. We, as a clan, have been nothing but faithful to our capital and we believe they are doing everything they can to protect us.”

 

“I do not _believe_ in the Empire,” Ryan seethed, getting a sound smack that made his ears buzz.

 

“Ryan!”

 

“I do _not_!” the boy cried, little hands balling into fists, “I believe in the people, Mother, as all should! And when I’m older-“

 

She grabbed his face, thumb and finger digging hard into his cheeks and cutting off his words.

 

“And when you are older you will be ungrateful,” Mother hissed, her eyes as cold as the stones outside, “The Eight have given us all we could ask: Food, water, shelter, a provider. There are an infinite amount of beggars on the streets, my son, and you will be one of them if you continue to reject all the glorious gifts the gods have bestowed on us.”

 

“We would not know such a generous way of life if not for Talos.” Ryan stepped back out of his mother’s grasp. “It is _he_ who has given us everything.”

 

That sparked some anger. “Talos is a false god!”

 

“He’s not!”

 

“He was an arrogant man!”

 

“But he was magnificent!” Ryan proclaimed loudly, “He dedicated his life to his country, and is that not what all Nords want? To be honorable? To serve Skyrim and fight forever in the Halls of Vanguard?”

 

He dropped his head. “I would be lucky to be half the warrior he was.”

 

His mother straightened to her full height and threw up her chin, looking down her nose at the child. “You will be lucky if you can sit tomorrow after your father hears of your blasphemous talk.”

 

-*-

 

Ryan received belt lashes across his back and thighs that night that would scar and stay with him for the rest of his life.

 

-*-

 

“Aye, love. Love! Even as man, great Talos cherished us. For he saw in us, in each of us, the future of Skyrim! The future of Tamriel!”

 

Ryan could not properly sit at the base of the Gildergreen with the stinging wounds still striped across his flesh but the scent of the budding flowers gave him courage. He would need it to go through with what he was planning.

 

“And there it is, friends! The ugly truth! We are the children of man! Talos is the true god of man! Ascended from flesh, to rule the realm of spirit!”

 

[Heirnskr](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Heimskr), the one shouting so patiently, was the only anointed Talos priest left in Whiterun and he made his opinion very clear. His voice was full of emotion and his words spread across the courtyard. He was eccentric but he was just a man of faith who was getting desperate to return his god to his rightful place. The carved stone behind him was the only Talos statue he'd ever seen. Everyone filed past Heirnskr like normal without knowing that today was different. Today, Ryan was going to prove he'd had enough. He was going to prove that not everyone was lying down and taking it.

 

“The very idea is inconceivable to our Elven overlords! Sharing the heavens with us? With man? Ha! They can barely tolerate our presence on earth!”

 

He wished he'd downed a pint of mead to boost his spirits but this was something he knew he'd have to do sober. It had to mean something. And, if it went well, he wouldn't be alone in it very long.

 

“Today, they take away your faith. But what of tomorrow? Do the Elves take your homes? Your businesses? Your children? Your very lives?”

 

Ryan started toward the alter with great strides, the legs that seemed to grow everyday eating up the distance. He couldn't back down now, he'd caught the eye of a few people already. Those that knew him understood that once that mask of determination was in place there was bound to be some drama. The city loved nothing more than gossip.

 

“And what does the Empire do? Nothing! Nay, worse than nothing! The Imperial...the Imperial machine...it...” Heirnskr stuttered to a stop as the boy approached. Ryan did not less this deter him and continued on until he stood before it. There was a shrine set up in front of the base, and behind it the image of the god towered. It could do with some care but it was magnificent nonetheless. The priest was blinking at him dully, shocked out of his usual sermon. He looked a little out of sorts. “Young sir Battle-Born...what may I...?”

 

Ryan held out three Septims to the man. “I'd like to pay homage.”

 

“This is too much,” Heirnskr eyed the gold. “I will not stop my words.”

 

“I do not ask you to,” Ryan assured him. “In fact, I'd like you to continue while I pray.”

 

“I...”

 

“And it's ‘Ryan’.” He turned back to the shrine and clasped his hands together, eyes falling closed as he started to gather up his thoughts. “I come here representing myself and no other.”

 

“Ryan,” the priest carefully sounded out his name. “Yes, of course. Please go right ahead.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

Ryan’s lips formed silent words. He prayed for protection, for his family and the province. He asked Talos to give him a real reason to believe in him so that all his arguing and fighting would be for good reason. Though he believed in his story, he had doubts as any other follower with any other of the Divines. He asked him to make his dreams clearer, to make the voice within them happier. He asked for a clear head and a well-tuned moral compass.

 

He could feel eyes on him. It was all part of his plan. All Talos needed to restore faith in Whiterun was another man (a sane one) openly worshipping him. If he prayed, maybe others would too. If he showed that even the Battle-Born's could see the Nine, not just the Eight...

 

A hand fell onto his shoulder, startling him out of his inner monologue. “Brother, pray with-”

 

A fist connected with his jaw, whipping his head to the side. Another took him to the ground. Ryan tried to stretch out the ache in his cheek just as a shadow fell over him, the angry outline of a man towering over him. Erens, his father, was brimming with righteous fury and those large hands that usually molded metal were now balled into fists and ready to strike again.

 

“What in the name of all that is sacred are you doing out here?” Erens demanded hotly. “Get back to the house this instant! You're embarrassing not only yourself but your family!”

 

“I'm showing Talos his proper respect.” He licked the blood off his teeth. “I'm doing what we all wish we could do.”

 

His father didn't seem to like that response. “And what is that?”

 

The blonde spat into the dirt, refusing to show an ounce of weakness. “To worship as we please. All Nords should have that freedom.”

 

Erens made a grab at him but he scrambled back against the wall of the shrine, slipping out of his grip as easily as a snake.

 

“You can beat me all you want, but I won't be complacent to the oppression of the Empire anymore!” Ryan declared with all the bravery he could muster in the face of his father's anger. The man grabbed him by the collar and drew back his fist but he managed to meet that fiery gaze. “Go ahead. Violence started this civil war and violence will end it. I'm not afraid.”

 

Erens yanked him to his feet, getting right into his face. “When did you learn to talk like that?”

 

“When you and Mother decided books would make better parents than you ever could be.”

 

-*-

 

Ryan was locked in his room for two days without food. He had permission to leave for water and to relieve himself but nothing else. His lessons were conducted by the bedside. Besides his tutor, no one was allowed to speak with him.

 

The minute his lashes were considered healed he was put to work on the farm again.

 

-*-*-*-

 

From then on he bit his tongue when it came to Talos but he refused to relent on the Empire’s lies and deceit. It was the beginning of the end for him and his parents, but he wouldn’t be so easily swayed to their way of thinking.

 

Instead, he dove headlong into physical training. He learned how to shoot a bow, use knives, a shield, an axe, and perfected his swordplay. He'd always felt the blade was his natural weapon and it only seemed right to up his skill while he had the time. He studied herbs and poisons. He poured over maps of Skyrim, Cyrodil, Hammerfell, and eventually all of Tamriel. He didn't yet know why but he felt the urge to look, to search for some unknown answer or message.

 

Everyone laughed at him. Though his hair had grown in straight with nary a curl in sight and had filled out to a proper Nord thickness (despite its softer texture), others couldn't seem to take him seriously. He spoke too calmly or with too much passion, his eyes too brightly colored, his waist too narrow and his chest bare of proper hair. He looked too soft, his uncle declared.

 

 _No woman wants a man who looks better than they do_.

 

The words had stung him to the core and it was nothing he could fix. How could he lessen the hills of his cheekbones? How did he dull his eyes? It was easier to add muscles to his arms and heft to his shoulders than it was to change what the gods had given him.

 

-*-

 

As the years went on, the voice in his dreams got more melancholy. What was once bold confidence morphed into brittle hope.

 

-*-

 

_'You've grown so fast. Time must move so...quickly for you. I would be nothing but a burden. There are far better suited tools for you than I.'_

 

-*-

 

It was his seventeenth winter when he finally decided he wasn't making it all up.

 

For some time he'd been sure his imagination was just running away from him and creating a friend to ease him to sleep at night. No longer. He could not fabricate such urgency. There was someone out there in the world who was calling out to him for help and he couldn't passively listen any longer. Within the dreams, he started begging the disembodied voice for hints or clues to where he was imprisoned. Architecture, nearby objects, even what it smelled like. If there was any hope of finding him (for it was surely a man who spoke so softly to him), then it laid within the other to reveal.

 

There was absolute silence for a few weeks but then there was one word. At first a whisper, then stronger.

 

_'Dragonstone.'_

 

Barely taking the time to light a candle, Ryan ran across the room to his bookcase. He sifted through his endless supply of scrolls and loose paper in search of his largest map. The chilly night air bit at his nude form but he barely felt the sting past the hot rush of excitement. He almost never remembered details from his dreams after he'd awoken but this time there was one word ringing clearly through his head.

 

Ryan found the map and took it to his table, spreading it out and pinning the corners to keep it from rolling up again. He ran his hand over the expensive parchment, the clear details of Tamriel laid out before him like an offering.

 

“Where are you?” he murmured into the dark, eyes dancing over mountain ranges and rivers as if there would be a new symbol to find. After a moment he uncapped a fresh bottle of ink and plucked up his quill to write out the letters in the corner of the paper, so not to forget.

 

-*-

 

Ryan didn't know what a 'Dragonstone' was. Even with their country's rich history, he'd never done much research about dragons. He'd scratched out the word in Ancient Nordic runes to discover there was a certain delight in doing so, as if he'd found two things that matched. He took the scrap of paper with him to the Jarl's library, which he'd sweet talked Hrognar (the Jarl's brother) into letting him use. The man had always been kind to him and was friendly with his parents. After being instructed to keep it quiet, the blonde was left alone.

 

Ryan ran his fingers over spines and mouthed the titles silently to himself. He pulled down a few but quickly replaced them when he realized they didn't hold what he needed. A small book called the “Catalog of Armor Enchantments” caught his eye and sent a cheap thrill up his spine. His father would have his head if he found books of magic in his possession. But if he were to become a well-rounded warrior, what good would come of being ignorant? Enchantment was not as unnatural as the other forms. It wasn't so much as bending energy than it was...blessing objects.

 

He pocketed it.

 

The Battle-Born heir came across a second volume that gave him pause. “The Rise and Fall of the Blades”, though this copy was different. The one they had at home was Imperial red and this one was leather and stamped. He carefully pulled it from the shelf and let himself skim through it, eyebrows shooting up to his hair line when he saw new text. The other must have been abridged because he'd never seen the term 'Dragonborn' used in so serious a manner before. It was some mythical figure from bedtime stories, someone Tiber Septim had been rumored to be.

 

“ _Born with the soul of a dragon_.” How strange.

 

Someone had written in the book towards the back, ink worn gray against the filthy pages. It was poorly translated and was missing a few words but it was discernable enough.

 

_Wall_

_BFB_

_Here lies guardsman_

_Keeping Dragonstone_

_Force of anger and shadow_

_Consult with Secret-Fire_

 

He wasn’t sure if that was a name or not at the end. There was another word beneath it.

 

“[Alduin](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Alduin).”

 

Now there was a name he'd heard before. He rifled through the stacks of books until he found a copy of “The Alduin/Akatosh Dichotomy”. He flipped pages until he found the excerpt he'd remembered so vividly from his first read-through.

 

_And so, it is my conclusion that the Alduin of Nord legend is in fact mighty Akatosh, who story grew twisted and deformed through the centuries of retelling and embellishment. Through no real fault of their own, the primitive peoples of Skyrim failed to understand the goodness and greatness of the Great Dragon, and it was this lack of understanding that formed the basis of what became, ironically, the most impressive creative achievement - “Alduin” the World Eater, phantom of bedtime stories and justification for ancient (if imagined) deeds._

 

“ 'World Eater', indeed.”

 

Ryan snapped the book closed and replaced it, slipping the Blades book back into its slot as well. _Dragonborn_ , _Dragonstone_ , _Alduin_. Childsplay. Fairytales. Gods, it seemed as if only the subject of mead and swords took themselves seriously in this country. He wasn't sure who to blame: Skyrim for its inherently simplistic ways, or the Empire for purposefully keeping them ignorant. He loved his homeland but the people around him seemed all too happy to go through their lives with their fingers in their ears and the wool over their eyes.

 

“Dragons,” Ryan scoffed to himself.

 

How quaint.

 

-*-*-*-

 

Ryan spent the rest of the winter with his head down. Though he knew the court wizard (Secret-Fire) for the Jarl would have more information on dragons and the “Dragonstone” (if it truly did exist), his father was starting to watch him more closely than ever. Though his mother hated him talking to Beletho the vendor, the man knew how to get things for a price and it was too valuable a relationship to give up. The older man told him small enchanted items were the best way to make quick money with very little and he took the advice to heart. For a small sack of Septims he obtained a miniature enchanting table that could easily be hidden up within the boards of his bed. While the household slept, he practiced enchanting things like cheap daggers and gloves.

 

It felt wrong but he managed to work past it. If he was going to strike out on his own, he would need gold to eat.

 

With those same thoughts in mind, Ryan bought up every map he could get his hands on. Flimsy, stock-based, wood-pressed, detailed, vague, outline, river-based – it didn't matter. He studied the geography of the land from his room like a general for battle, going through bottles of ink just tracing out paths he would like to take. He would make lists in the margins as he went that detailed what kind of supplies would be necessary for such a trip, the miles he would expect to walk, the cities that would most interest him, or the monuments he would visit.

 

Ryan wanted to make a trek along the Gold Coast in Cyrodil and visit Anvil, smell the farmland air. He wanted to visit Bravil and help the skooma-sick people still there. He wanted to climb Red Mountain in Morrorwind, he wanted to see the ruins of the fallen city Vivec. He wanted to lay flowers at the foot of a real Talos statue. He wanted to see for himself the once great city of Jehenna and find out just what his people had done to it.

 

But above all, he wanted to find the voice of his friend and liberate him from whatever cage his 'master' held him in. And the only way to do that was explore the country-side.

 

-*-*-*-

 

Ryan trained and grew more outspoken to the dismay of his clan. Though he had trouble growing out a natural beard, he started to gain respect within the three districts of his city. Even the Companions took note of his mounting skill and Aela had twice hinted at a place for him, even if it was always under the influence of mead.

 

The voice stayed at a steady trickle in his dreams. It spoke of his destiny, his fate, and the smothering sadness that grew thicker each day. Sometimes the blonde would awake with a heavy heart and tears on his cheeks, but that only made him more determined.

 

His family frowned at his mentions of traveling.

 

There was no place better for him than here, they assured him. He was one of the heirs to the Battle-Born clan. His only duty was to become a great warrior and serve the Empire. That and to have as many babies a young wife would give him. But he rejected their offers with a firm hand. Though the Whiterun maids were beautiful and kind enough to let him warm their beds, he had no urge to marry and settle down.

 

The only person he would ever consider such a life with would easily have been his childhood friend [Njada Stonearm](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Njada_Stonearm). She was developing into the fiercest woman he'd ever met and, to his knowledge, the only one who could knock him on his ass within a minute. They'd tried a small courtship but all that had come of it was a son, Rykve. Though she was working hard to get into the Companions, she was a good mother. He bought her a house in the Wind District and gave them all the money they needed to put food in their mouths and clothes on their backs, but he made it very clear that he couldn't have a family. There was a special place carved into his soul and heart for both of them but he couldn't be the husband and father they needed.

 

Understanding his need to roam, Njada accepted it and let things lie. Even being a bastard, Rykve was much loved by his clan and they took care to watch him and let him sleep with the rest of the children when his mother was out running missions with Companion Vilkas. The Battle-Borns took him in but they heavily discouraged Ryan from acting as a father, deciding for him that once little Rykve was old enough he'd be sent to Solitude to go to school and learn a trade with a master.

 

“It's what's done with all young, unwanted boys,” his aunt Alfhild explained with her plow planted deep in the rich soil of her garden.

 

“He's not unwanted,” Ryan had defended venomously, sweat thick across his forehead from bundling together hay for the man who sold out the horses down the road.

 

The woman's eyes had sliced like daggers into him. “He should be.”

 

Ryan decided to be happy to be labeled 'uncle'. He wasn't the first man to do such a thing and he wouldn't be the last, but it still hurt when he thought of the little family he accidentally made. A sense of pride welled in his chest as he thought of his son going so far from home on his own adventure. He floated half-baked fantasies of the two of them climbing the Throat of the World together but he kept quiet about it.

 

Njada would sew her wild oats as well, child be damned. And though she would never admit it outright, his friend resented him for having the choice to be unattached while she herself was stuck with the child until he'd grown. The only thing that kept them on friendly terms was his solemn promise to never take a wife.

 

“If it's to be anyone, 'Ada, it will be you.”

 

Ryan’s father would not have allowed such a match anyway. Njada was deemed below his station. In the eyes of the city and the clan he was still too young, despite their constant needling about a wife. Another of their hypocrisies that he couldn't keep up with.

 

So life went on. Maps filled up with inky trails, books held hasty notes on dragons, and his bed became the perfect hiding spot for poorly enchanted silverware. All while his son, safe and happy, slept a few houses down.

 

-*-

 

**4E 201**

 

Torygg, the High King of Skyrim, had been killed in [Solitude](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Solitude_%28Skyrim%29). The news swept through the country like wildfire, engulfing whole cities and turning lives upside down. Word from the bigger strongholds said that there were now sides – the Imperials and the Stormcloaks. Those who mourned the king and then those who put a crown upon the head of his murderer.

 

Ryan and his family sat together at the dinner table with only wine to accompany them. There were murmurs of memories and sighs for what could have been. All their hearts hurt. Torygg had been a young king with no children, a man with the potential for greatness. It was said that Ulfric shouted him to pieces. His voice held power. So said the rumors, at least.

 

There would be time for violence and uproar later. In this hour, they grieved.

 

“He was such a handsome young man,” his mother sighed behind her handkerchief.

 

“With such a pretty wife,” Olfrid added with a huff. “They would have had a strong brood.”

 

Bergritte dabbed at her eyes. “All the times we visited court, I never heard the king utter a single foul word.”

 

“Damn this!” Ryan stood suddenly, jostling the table so hard the wine swirled. “Our Motherland is falling apart out there! A king has been slain and you talk of his kind tone? Don't any of you understand why this has happened?”

 

“Calm yourself, Ryan,” Idolaf stood as well, a tension in his heavy jaw. “We all know what happened. That traitor Stormcloak ripped our king asunder with a wicked magic that I do not wish to understand.”

 

“Fool,” Ryan spat, “Ulfric did something crucial under the strain the Empire had set down upon him. The Nords are desperate to be free of this oppression! Would any of you not do the same if it meant your countrymen could be free to worship and work as they please?”

 

He cast his eyes around the room to meet blank faces. A frown tugged his lips. “None of you? Not one would stand up for what you believe in? Not one would risk his life to safe hearth and heart?”

 

His father cleared his throat. “You speak as if you agree.”

 

“Not with murder, no,” Ryan corrected him quickly, “But his passion I understand. I empathize with him, as should all Nords who love their country.”

 

“Why is your opinion of the traitor so high?” his uncle grit out, knuckles white around his mug of mead. “He has killed your king.”

 

“Hey may not be ideal, but he's the hero we need,” Ryan huffed. “In all honesty, he's the hero we deserve.”

 

For the first time in years, his father beat him so bad he couldn't stand the next morning.

 

It did nothing to quench the righteous fire within him.

 

**-*-*-*-**

 

**4E 201**  
_Sun's Height  
Loredas 20th_

 

_'You must see. You must know. He has returned and he will awake those that will burn up everything this world holds dear. I can hear it...whispers in the stone, in the mutterings of the old ones. They know what's coming but they do not care for they are dead.'_

 

_Pure flame licked at his body, threatening to turn his skin to ash._

 

_'But we are not.'_

 

Ryan screamed himself awake, his chest full to the brim with what felt like sand. His throat was raw, his eyes stung.

 

This was the night.

 

Ryan dressed in a hurry but carefully, making sure to wrap his long hair up with a thick leather tie to keep it out of his face. He bunched it up in a loose bun in his haste. He didn't pack much. Gold enough to ease his way, a spare change of clothes, his best map of both Skyrim and Tamriel, a blank journal, ink, quill, a bow, a quiver, a sword, and food to sustain him for a few days. The rest would have to wait for another time, if ever. He had to be light footed if he wanted to get far from where they knew his name. He couldn't stay in his Clan House for another minute. They were close minded and grew crueler by the day, threatening him with life at the farm if he didn't behave himself. _Behave_. Like a dog.

 

With disgust curling his lip, he left.

 

-*-

 

Ryan beat on the door with the side of his fist while the other tugged his hood just that much further around his face. He was desperate to keep himself hidden from the guards that patrolled the walkways to avoid any unsavory questioning. It wasn't against the law what he was doing but at twenty one he could still be 'asked' to return back to his Clan House or at the very least wake his father to explain why he was leaving.

 

That was a conversation he wasn't looking forward to having. Ever.

 

The door flew open and an arrow tip was shoved in his face. He held his hands up in surrender.

 

“Ryan?” Njada's voice was husky from the sleep she had been in only moments before. She had barely thought to put on a simple dark robe before grabbing her bow. The sleeve of one side was slipping to reveal a sun-kissed collarbone. Her mist-colored hair was loose and tumbling down the same shoulder, still crimped from where she'd shoved it into her favorite helmet all day long. She looked exhausted and more than a little surprised.

 

Ryan swept her up in his arms and kissed her soundly on the mouth, pouring his secret against her lips in hopes she'd keep it.

 

“You're leaving? Why?”

 

“ 'Ada, please. You know why.”

 

“I don't,” Njada argued, ripping down his hood to see his face properly in the light from her hastily lit candle.

 

He grit his teeth. “I can't be what they want. I don't think like they do. I do no good here wasting away on that farm and in that wretched house. I need to see places, do... _anything_. I need to discover my own path and where I fit into the world. I cannot do that from my bedroom window.”

 

“That I do know,” she sighed, arms crossing over her soft chest, “What do you want of me? If this is some foolhardy plan to run away with you and get married in secret, I won't have it. I demand a fortnight of planning from my intended before we elope to Markarth and change our names. It takes planning to ruin one’s life.”

 

There was a smile on her lips by the end of her explanation and it was contagious, tugging at his own mouth until they were laughing quietly in the hall. The bubble of excitement and fear spread to his friend's chest, bringing color to both their cheeks.

 

“I came to say good bye,” Ryan confessed once his mirth had gained an edge of sorrow, “To both of you.”

 

“He’s asleep.” Njada rested her bow on the table, fingertips lingering over the engraved surface almost thoughtfully. “But I suppose a moment or two won’t hurt him.”

 

Rykve’s bedroom was warm from the dying fire. Across from the ember laden hearth lay a well-packed bed. There was a mound of fur upon it that rose and fell softly with its inhabitant’s breaths. Ryan was careful to step over the small scattering of toys, his heel grazing off the edge of a miniature shield. He eyed it with no small amount of pride.

 

Sunshine curls spilled across the three year old’s pillow, little cheeks ruddy and eyes shut to the world. His beautiful son. Rykve’s was destined to go through the same shame he did about his appearance with the other children and their clan, but he wouldn’t change a thing about him. He would be a fine young Nord, of this his father was sure.

 

“My boy,” Ryan breathed, dropping to a knee beside the bed.

 

Light lashes fluttered wildly before eyes colored a very familiar blue blinked at him in the dark. “Uncle Rye?”

 

“Hush, my boy, nothing’s wrong,” Ryan hushed, reaching out to lay hesitant fingers over where the child’s own would be under the blanket, “I…I have to go away for a while.”

 

Rykve started to sit up, face pinching in displeasure. “Why?”

 

“It’s very difficult to explain.”

 

“Try,” the boy pouted.

 

“The world is so big,” Ryan replied with stilted honestly, “And it’s high time I explore it. There’s something I need to do, but I’m not sure what yet. The only way I’ll ever figure it is if I go find it out myself. That, and there’s…there’s someone out there who needs me.”

 

“Who?”

 

“I’m not sure.” Ryan frowned. “This will be a very uncertain journey, I’m afraid.”

 

Rykve’s face smoothed out as understanding blossomed upon him.

 

“But before I set out, I came to say goodbye and give you this.”

 

Ryan tugged off a woven cord from around his neck, a gold medallion dangling at the end of it. Within the metal was pressed the Battle-Born clan’s symbol. He slipped it over the boy’s messy ringlets and let it rest between his collarbones. Ryan was struck dumb by how much the boy resembled him at that age. Wide eyes, loose clothes, the weight of an entire clan resting on his chest. His son grabbed the necklace in his little fingers and peered down at it with wonder filled eyes.

 

“Rykve.”

 

The boy’s eyes snapped back up at the serious tone of his voice.

 

“Never forget where you come from,” Ryan cautioned, cupping the child’s hands and the medallion within them, “Even if you grow to resent it…even if you feel unloved and unappreciated…never forget. You need to remember where you’ve been to know where you’re going.”

 

His throat closed up and his mouth went dry. He had not anticipated how hard this would be. He looked into his son’s sweet face and all he could see was his own unhappy childhood. He could pretend he was fine with being alone but at the end of the day he wanted more for his son. He wanted better.

 

“When I’m done with my journey and find somewhere to live, maybe I could send for you and your mother,” Ryan choked out. “Somewhere in the country with fresh air with no aunts to correct you all the time.”

 

Rykve’s surprise returned.

 

“Your mother would hate it.” His smile threatened to crack. “Maybe it could just be the two of us, then. I'm sure I'll have lots to teach you after I'm all said and done. I think I'll manage to send you both some treasures in the meantime. Won't that be wonderful?”

 

Ryan leaned up and pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead. He stood up and started toward the door in hopes of hiding the tears that had gathered in his eyes. This wasn't the time for tears this was the time for action, for change. There was no room for heartache.

 

“Father?”

 

Ryan froze with his hand on the handle, tension shooting through his shoulders. Had he heard that right? His family had been so careful to convince the boy his father was dead. He'd gone along in his role, he'd said everything he was supposed to say, he'd even kept his distance as he was told. He was fabricating what he wanted to hear, nothing more.

 

“Be safe.”

 

Ryan turned. Big, blue eyes blinked at him. There wasn't a tear on his son's face. There was a small flicker of shame at the state of his own weeping heart -  here he was falling apart and his son was showing him up. Another burst of pride flowed through him.

 

“Of course.”

 

The boy's lower lip threatened to quiver but he held strong.

 

“Come back.”

 

The whisper nearly devastated him.

 

“I will.”

 

Ryan escaped to the chill of the welcome hall. Njada waited by the door with her robe tied more securely. She didn't look particularly happy but there was something on her face that told him she'd been listening through the door. Had she...?

 

No, she wouldn't have told him anything. There was a lot to risk for her as well with his clan practically running the city. Her life was rooted here, she wouldn't risk upsetting it.

 

He moved in to hug her. “ 'Ada...”

 

“Don't.” She put a finger over his questing lips, a smile on her own, “If you try to kiss me again, I'll gut you from the sack up.”

 

“Fair enough,” Ryan conceded, taking her hand and pressing a daring kiss to the delicate skin of her wrist. “I will be back. This is not over.”

  
“No, I suspect not.” Her brilliant eyes danced over his face. “Go do great things. For me and for your son.”

 

* * *

 

**For those of you who aren't asleep or gone, I welcome you to the end of the chapter and truly hope you enjoyed that even a little. I promise the story will pick up once we hit chapter 3 or so. I'm going to be alternating Ryan's story with Dan and Ray's story, so we'll get to that here in a couple days. Have some faith, I promise to make this good!**

 

 


	2. Dragons I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragon mates. An introduction before the porn.

**Dunahmul = Dun (grace) Ah (hunter) Mul (strength)  
** **Raanyahmid = Raan (animal) Yah (seek) Mid (loyal)**

***gonna call them Dan and Ray after human names are established, because I want to keep the readers from feeling unfamiliar or unattached**

* * *

 

 

There were [Dovah](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Dragons_%28Skyrim%29) that were born and Dovah that were deemed to have always _been_.

 

Dunahmul had been alive and solitary for as long as memory could stretch. Before Man took his first breath, he had already lived a full life. The world had once been young and he had seen it with his own eyes. In all his existence, he’d never truly bothered himself with seeking companionship with his own kind. He’d been content with himself and his wandering lifestyle, drifting from hill to mountain to valley to enjoy the land around him. He was not bound by time or age and he glided through life trusting only himself.

 

Until the day he found a nest.

 

It wasn’t often his kind mated. There was no need as they were born from the scales of [Akatosh](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Akatosh) and released into the stream of time. But some of them had adapted through the depth of their magic to become fertile, to create such nests filled with gorgeous, scaled eggs that cut more sharply than any jewel.

 

This particular nest had been abandoned, the evidence of other eggs still imprinted in the straw along with holes where jewels or other precious material had once been. The mother seemed to have gathered up and left in haste, this open formation unsatisfying in some way or too dangerous. But they had left a small egg behind. It was ruby red and had two rings of ridges with a golden top. A tiny, beautiful thing that had caught his eye from the air.

 

Dunahmul landed and padded around the nest, snuffling at it. The markers of claim scent were old, too old to count. He nudged the ruby egg with his snout, expecting nothing but dead weight, but there was a tiny heart inside it. He brightened as the little one squirmed around inside, rustling the egg. He sniffed at it a little, flicking his tongue over the warm surface. A babe like this should be much hotter, warmed by his mother’s fire. He would’ve expected the drakeling to have perished by now but this tiny one was still alive, still clinging to existence despite being abandoned. _A little fighter._

 

Dunahmul swept the egg up into his mouth and took off to his roost. The egg gently set aside, he dug through the mountain and carved out a place for himself, beating the rocks out with his tail and using his claws to forge out a hole in the rock for a nest area and a crater that would serve as a hearth. With a roar of magic he shrunk down to a manageable, humanoid form that was still as hulking as any giant. He used the slighter form to build up the stone hearth and gather up material for a resting place that he could lay on top of to keep the egg nestled.

 

He took care of the babe in his makeshift home. He nourished it with his fire and kept it close, kept it loved. Under his care the shell grew thick and the whole egg swelled three times its original size. After months with the quiet companion, Dunahmul developed great affection for the unborn drakeling. When it finally hatched, he was almost overwhelmed by the pure _love_ he felt for the tiny Dovah that popped past the shell.

 

The hatchling was as ruby red as his egg, bright in his youth, and came out bursting with energy. He sniffed and chirped all over the nest, nudging the flowers and precious stones it had been filled with over the quiet months. Dunahmul snuffed steam and the little one shuddered all over, purring at him before padding up. He nearly laughed when the hatchling crawled up onto his snout and snuggled in.

 

_Papa? Mama?_

 

The tiny voice in his head was like pure, tinkling bells and as bright as a spring day. Inquisitive and sweet.

 

 _Master_ , he gently corrected. _I am_ _Dunahmul._

 

_Dun! Ah! Mul!_

 

The hatchling roared their ancient tongue at him in puffs of smoke, trying to make fire while the goo from his birth egg still shined wetly upon the nest. It chirped and ran up his head and down his spine, clawing lightly and biting at his wings and along his sides, at the armored scales that rested in spikes upon his spine. Once he was done thoroughly attacking and hunting down the older Dovah’s swiping tail, he came prancing back and rubbed his tiny head all over his mighty jaw.

 

 _My Master._ Golden brown eyes blinked innocently up at him. _Who am I?_

 

Dunahmul had pondered this very question for so long. The names of Dovah were given once they had proved themselves. This tiny one was inquisitive, and from the first tickles of bonding between them that threatened to snap in place any second the brat would be loyal. His new charge.

 

He took a great breath and blazed a stream of fire across the cave floor. _Raan! Yah! Mid!_ The words bellowed out of him, a shout, their old tongue communicated in the way of their kind. Runes burned bright hot and sizzled into the stone. _Your name, my little one._

 

_Raan! Yah! Mid!_

 

The hatchling tried to shout back but it came in weak gusts of power. He sneezed out white smoke at the end before proudly puffing up. But when he settled down he looked so pleased with himself. _Raanahmid. That’s me!_

 

The older Dovah huffed in amusement. _That is you._

 

-*-*-*-*-

 

Raanahmid was born after the first swell of Men appeared in the world. Dunahmul took his little charge to a snowy, thickly wooded area of the world without a name. Many of his kind came to this area, attracted to the tallest mountain peaks, but the humans followed in boats and came on the backs of beasts of burden. Soon, they lived side by side. They called themselves _Nords_ , and this snowy kingdom _[Skyrim](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Skyrim)._

 

Though his charge was young, the Dovah taught him how to take human form before he taught him how to control his fire.

 

Survival was important and all else was secondary. They would outlive these Men but their steel got sharper and their arrows more swift with every puny year they lived.

 

Through this brand of magic they could move among them, interact with them. Even if they were lesser, base creatures they were still interesting. And they created such lovely jewelry, they smelt gold into weapons and statues, and they wove the string of insects into the finest silk. It was not just Men, other humanoid creatures flooded the land. Elves, Argonians, soft Khajiit - they were something the Dovah had to learn to live with. They were adaptive creatures, after all. Though their human forms could sometimes be draconic, it was a new skillset they were quick and eager to learn.

 

With these interactions, the pair of Dov were gifted with names that could be spoken on the tongue instead of shouted with the heft of their power. Their true names were meant only for their kind, but the few Men they spoke with gave it a try. Daniel, they called the elder Dovah when they tripped over his name.

 

 _Dan_ , his hatchling proclaimed happily, spouting the word in a flurry of sparks. _It fits you, Master. It sounds strong._  

 

Of his charge, they observed his energetic nature and laughed as he rolled around in patches of sunlight and warmed his soft belly.

  
“A small ray of sunshine,” the women teased as the hatchling basked on a warm rock in his human form.

 

 _Ray_. Even Dunahmul adored the name. These plain, simple names sat easily in their humanoid mouths and even they began to use them. As Dovah, they were all things, all forms and names, and adapting the Common Tongue was not an unpleasant experience. [Dovahzul](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Dragon_Shouts), their native tongue, was much too powerful and dangerous to the fleshy Men.

 

They changed their habits, their lives, their very _names_ to adapt to this new world.

 

It did not save them.

 

-*-*-

 

[ ** Circa Mythic Era 2500 ** ](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Timeline)

 

Daniel huffed as he retreated into the dense forest, steam pouring from his nostrils as his blood-slick body crushed branches and knocked trunks crooked. His feet were too clumsy to properly clear him a path, agony hazing his once-brilliant eyes. The scaled body cradled in his jaw between his teeth was limp, wings torn to shreds and laying in tatters along his chin. The commotion of Men was long behind them but he’d escaped them too late. The deep, ragged tears in his body proved that.

 

When he’d gone as far as he could bare, Daniel dropped the small body and collapsed. He was too weak to transform into a smaller form to hide and in truth he would not want to.

 

“Raanahmid.” His mournful shout was pathetic and it barely rustled the leaves around them. Daniel nudged at the small body but there wasn’t a lick of life left in it. His charge’s eyes were mercifully closed but his form was ice cold - the natural fire and magic long gone. The gashes in his belly had stolen him from his physical form. His poor little one had grown so much in their time together, no longer a sprite but bigger than a fat salamander, not even the length of Daniel’s tail. His charge had been so bright, so passionate. And now...

 

He could feel his own fire cooling but his heart was already broken, there was no room in it to mourn for his own life.

 

Daniel tucked his charge under his chin and let his eyes fall closed for a last time.

 

 _To brief was your life, my sweet one, my tiny Ray. Alas, though I have lived long, we were robbed of a life together. Forgive me for not protecting you._ He huffed out his last stream of flame and sunk into the earth, the full weight of his form crushing all around him. _Forgive me for not showing you all this world had to offer._

 

-*-*-*-

 

** 4E 200 (roughly 4,300 years later) **

 

The booming voice of his kin shook his bones from his grave. He emerged from the mound with an answering roar, the soil and stone trembling to pieces as the old magic ripped him back into the world. He was nothing more than a skeletal monster at first but the being hovering in the air in front of him looked upon him as if he were the magnificent creature he had once been.

 

Dunahmul was shocked to see the black scales, the seething stare, the long line of a elegantly dark body... _Alduin_. Destroyer. Devour. Master. First Born of Akatosh. The most acclaimed and revered of their Father. [World Eater](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Alduin).

 

_Stand and breathe again, my brother._

 

Dunahmul screamed his agony to the sky as his bones _burned_ , fire searing over each arch. Beneath the flames, muscle and sinew and flesh returning in raw layers to rebuild him from the inside out. He could feel Alduin’s power searing his face and down, scales flicking into place and folding over each other to recreate his armor. He’d never felt a physical strain so deeply.

 

With a mighty shake of his form, the flames flickered out. He took a full breath of air and his lungs filling up with ash and ozone, crackling from disuse, but after a few inhales they smoothed out. His eyes, newly formed as they were, cleared and he could feel the strength returning to his limbs. His belly burned and for a moment he thought he would die all over again, that this was some cruel hell of which he would experience such mortality in a never ending cycle, but he trilled in triumph when he realized it was his _fire._ His power had returned, he could feel it now, the heat spread into his throat and the sparks dancing across ever scale.

 

A ball of fire and ash rolled in front of him before spreading out in a happy, energetic heap.

 

Dunahmul had never felt such pure elation before but it came upon him now as his hatchling’s face peered up at him.

 

 _Master!_ Raanyahmid chirped and jumped up, closing the distance between them before butting his head into the elder Dovah’s throat. _It hurt so much but now you’re here. You’re back._

 

Dunahmul curled protectively around his charge and though he shed no tears he wept in joy. The young Dovah huffed and pressed against him, chattering animatedly about being reunited, and Dunahmul did his best to shield the hatchling from the searing eyes of Alduin. The Dovah had not landed but watched them, wings beating the air as easily as he breathed.

 

“ _Di kiirre fen alok_ ,” Alduin rumbled. _My children will arise._

 

Dunahmul turned his back on him, keeping his charge close. He could hear the World Eater hissing sparks behind him, offended. Alduin was a prince among them, an all-encompassing leader, and a feared ally. _You have my endless gratitude for reviving, but I do not bow._

 

“ _Dunahmul. Nust wo ni qiilaan fen kos duaan._ ”

 

With a low roar, Alduin took off into the seemingly endless sky, leaving the two alone. Raanyahmid wiggled out from under his master’s grip and trotted out of the burial mound, breathing in the fresh air and watching the dark spot of the World Eater disappear into the distance. His tail flicked curiously before he turned back to stare curiously at elder.

 

 _Those who do not bow will be devoured_ , Raanyahmid repeated with an anxious chirp, wings fluttering. _Is he to harm us, Master? Do we...belong to him, this World Eater?_

 

 _We are all sons of Akatosh and belong to no one but ourselves._ Dunahmul assured him as he too climbed out of the mound and felt the grass beneath his feet. _Do not worry about him, young one. There is a whole new world to explore and we must carve a place for ourselves within it._

 

  


 


	3. Dragonborn II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan meets Alduin.

Ryan stole away into the night. He told the guard he was visiting his aunt to try and help her sick child. As he went through, he sent a prayer up to the Nine that Lars didn't fall ill due to his lie. Gold changed hands with the man who rented horses outside the city gates with the promise that the animal would be dropped off at the man's cousin's farm in [Falkreath](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Falkreath_%28Skyrim%29). Then he was gone, swept into the night like so many true adventurers

 

**-*-**

 

It took him nearly a week to reach the city. He was careful with his map but he still managed to get turned around after fending off some wolves. He followed the river as far as he could and managed to avoid the worst of the bandits until he came across the border Falkreath. He stayed at Dead Man's Drink under a false name. It cost him a few more coins but he found enough food to fill his belly and a comfortable pillow to rest his head. He would need his strength for the day’s journey to the border.

 

**-*-**

 

Ryan didn’t notice the swarm of Imperial guards until it was too late. He tried to run but they seized him and threw him into the dirt with brute strength alone. Coarse ropes were wrapped up his arms from wrist to elbows to keep him crippled. They forced him up onto his knees and ripped off his hood, gold hair spilling out his bun and onto his shoulders.

 

“Another Nord,” one of the Imperial men grunted, nose scrunched up in disgust. “He must be a straggler to the other Stormcloaks.”

  


“ ‘Stormcloaks’?” Ryan parroted dumbly, pulling hard at his bindings.

 

“Boy.” A sword found its way to the crook of his throat. “Is the Emperor your protector? Is he not good and just to his people?”

 

“Titus Mede II,” Ryan started slowly, trying to bite back his retort but failing miserably, “I understand his difficult position and I respect him for doing what he thought was right. I am thankful his family ended the [Stormcrown Interregnum](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Stormcrown_Interregnum) but I disagree with how his family came to the throne. Honestly, I disagree with the idea of an Emperor altogether.”

 

One of the men holding him delivered a sudden kick to his ribs, pain striking through him all the way to the teeth. _I suppose they don’t appreciate well-read citizens._

 

“Do you swear loyalty to the Emperor?!”

 

“How can I swear loyalty to a man who believes one person should decide the fate of nine provinces?” Ryan blurted out, the fire in his voice pale to that which was now blazing in the eyes of his captors, “He holds too much power and if he cannot understand and strive to change that then he deserves whatever fate comes to him!”

 

There was a sharp blow to the back of his head and the world went dark.

 

**-*-**

 

Time had passed. Ryan wasn’t sure how long but he could feel the stiffness within his limbs that told of hours. He was sitting with his back propped up, hands still tied in his lap. His head was throbbing from whoever had struck him. The itch along his neck and cheek were probably from blood. There was a grit of dirt under his nails and across his palms from being thrown around. He rolled his shoulders and scowled when he felt that his pack was gone.

 

Bastards.

 

Ryan dared to pry his eyes open. The sky was pasted grey and the wind was strong enough to kick up snow in a fine mist. He had been dumped in a cart driven by an Imperial soldier, one of a long line driving along an unfamiliar road. Two men similarly bound were seated across him, another beside him with a gag tied around his head. One was just a small man who hadn’t been fed enough, dirt acting as war paint across his face. The other two were large and intimidating, hair the shade of a true Nord with many war braids to tell of their deeds. They had on a strange blue and silver armor.

 

They appeared to match.

  


The bastards had taken Ryan’s clothes all the way down to his boots. He'd been changed into rags. A vague memory of getting tossed around and stripped rolled around in his mind but he couldn't be sure if it was real or not.

 

There was no getting free. He’d be shot in the back the moment he tried to make a run for it.

 

“Hey, you.”

 

The Nord across from him was now staring.

 

“You’re finally awake.” There was the faintest of smiles on his weathered face. “I heard you back talked the soldiers. It’s a nasty head wound you have there.”

 

The blonde tried to nod but the movement made his head sting.

 

“You were trying to cross the border, right?”

 

“Yes,” he rasped dryly. Even his water skin had been taken.

 

“Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us.” The man tossed his mighty head toward the ill-nourished man, “And that horse thief over there.”

 

“Damn you Stormcloaks,” the horse thief sneered. “Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell.”

 

The man's dark gaze fell on him. “You there. You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

 

 _They really are Stormcloaks,_ Ryan marveled, committing the pattern of their armor to memory. It was a stark contrast to Imperial red.

 

“We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,” the other Nord stated solemnly.

 

The guard manning the reigns barked at them to shut up.

 

“And what about him, huh?” The scrawny man gestured to their third with his bound hands.

 

“Watch your tongue,” the Nord snapped harshly, “You're speaking to [Ulfric Stormcloak](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Ulfric_Stormcloak), the true High King.”

 

Ryan gaped in a way his mother would have called unbecoming. The man was slumping but there was power there, something under his skin that couldn't be seen but it could be felt. It was a hum in the air, a buzz. _This_ was Ulfric Stormcloak. He was as handsome and fearsome as the stories told. Ryan would not wish to duel with him, friendly or not.

 

“I know of you,” Ryan spoke softly, leaning in to get a look at the man's face. “Ulfric...hero of Skyrim.”

 

The man's eyebrows quirked up, a silent acknowledgement.

 

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” the horse thief questioned. “He's no hero. He's the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you...” Panic struck his face. “Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

 

The Nord shook his head, thick hair dancing over his shoulders. “I don't know where we're going, but Sovengarde awaits.”

 

The horse thief started babbling nervously, declaring that the whole thing was wrong. Ryan was inclined to agree with him.

 

“Where are you from?” the larger man asked, cutting into the rant.

 

“Why do you care?” the thief spat.

 

“A Nord's last thoughts should be of home.” His voice was a low, steady drawl. The sun broke through of the clouds and spilled into their cart. Flashes of Whiterun ran through the Battle-Born's mind. His clan house, the shine of Njada's hair in the early morning sun, his son's laugh, the taste of his aunt's sweet rolls, the scent of new paper and how the farm smelled in the spring when the wheat was fresh. The sweet sound of that voice in his dreams. Nostalgia lifted him up only for him to come crashing back down once he saw the walls of an upcoming city gate.

 

“Rorikstead,” the thief replied tentatively. “I'm...I'm from Rorikstead. Lokir.”

 

“Lokir of Rorikstead,” the Nord nodded. “I'm [Ralof ](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Ralof)of Riverwood.”

 

Somewhere ahead of them an Imperial soldier called out something. The only word he could clearly make out was 'headsman' and it made his stomach churn. As they continued in the town he couldn't help but notice how many more soldiers there were compared to Whiterun. The Jarl there tended to keep as many non-guards out as possible. Here, crimson swathed almost every man that held a sword.

 

“Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. [Divines](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Nine_Divines), please help me,” Lokir prayed furiously. They passed under the gates. Ryan couldn't help but feel they were passing into another world, another life. Or a lack thereof.

 

“There are no gods that can help us now,” Ryan observed with no hidden sense of dread. “Not even Talos can see us here.”

 

What had he done? He'd left his young son at home, his best friend and family – for what? To die for his thoughtless words? To be at the end of the Empire's ax? He couldn't say it was a mistake but it was surely a misstep. It was a stumble that could possibly land him in his grave.

 

“Look at him,” Ralof's lips curled up in a feral snarl. “General [Tullius](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/General_Tullius), Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn Elves. I bet they had something to do with this.”

 

Ryan craned his neck and caught a glimpse of gold armor. Though there was hate for them in his heart, he'd never actually seen them.

 

Ralof's contemplative silence broke with a flicker of realization. “This is Helgen.”

 

“Gods above,” Ryan cursed softly, the mental map in his brain bringing up the distance between Whiterun and here. He was far from home in more ways than one.

 

“I used to be sweet on a girl from here,” Ralof hummed, looking around with a new fondness. “Wonder if Vilad is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in?”

 

“This place looks fortified,” Ryan regarded. “It's funny.”

  


“What is, my friend?” Ralof inquired.

 

He shook his head. “When I was a child, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel safe. And now...”

 

“And now?” the older man prompted.

 

“And now I can't seem to catch my breath.”

 

Imperial flags were set up in town square along with a chopping block. There was a man with a very large ax and a hood waiting beside it. The cart stopped alongside the others, Stormcloak soldiers with matching uniforms already filing out to their deaths. Was this truly the end of them? Could it be that their deaths meant nothing at all?

 

“Let's go,” Ralof urged. “Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.”

 

“No! Wait!” Lokir was grabbed on the arm by a soldier and forced off the cart, getting shoved into line with little care. “We're not rebels! You've got to tell them we weren't with you. This is a mistake!”

 

“Silence, sir,” Ryan implored. “They will listen to very little the louder you yell.”

 

“At least face your death with some courage, thief,” Ralof added impatiently somewhere behind him.

 

A woman with a stony look on her face and a captain's helmet stepped forward. There was a man beside her holding a scroll and a quill, brow furrowed up in concentration. To Ryan’s surprise the man was a Nord as well. How could a kinsman sit back and watch this? It was barbaric to treat men of any race like this. Herding them like a cattle, threatening to stomp out their lives – it made him sick.

 

The woman's voice carried strength over them and demanded obedience. “Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time.”

 

“Empire loves their damn lists,” Ralof growled, shoulder brushing his own as he moved to stand beside him. Ulfric's name was called and he stepped up bravely, meeting every Imperial's eye as he passed them. The Nord behind him cleared his throat to clear it of anything that would give his sorrow away. “It's been an honor, Jarl Ulfric.”

 

Ralof's name was called next, then Lokir's.

 

“No! I'm not a rebel!” the horse thief was growing hysterical, “You can't do this!”

 

Ryan knew what was going to happen a moment before it did. “Don't!”

 

Lokir took off at a quick run. A swift command for archers rang through the street. The young Battle-Born's jaw dropped as two arrows thumped into unprotected flesh. Lokir's body fell as if someone had cut his strings, legs tripping up beneath him before he went still for the last time. A lost man with dreams of escaping to Hammerfell dropped dead just like _that_. It was morbidly fascinating and it brought bile to the back of his throat.

 

“Anyone else feel like running?” the captain asked, a new eager twitch to her sword hand. It was followed with a stony silence.

 

“Wait,” the Nord with the list gestured at him. “You there. Step forward.”

 

Ryan hesitated. He wished they'd at least left him his cape. His ego told him that anyone could recognize him but the logical side of him said that no one would know him this far from Whiterun. There was something in the man's expression that hinted familiarity and it terrified him in more ways than one. What would they do with him if they found out? They may have struck Lokir down for running but surely this was all some big scare tactic...they would just behead Ulfric and make it a warning to the others. The Empire was corrupt but they wouldn't slaughter a headcount of almost twenty Skyrim citizens.

 

“Who are you?” the older man asked, each word weighed down by the dire nature of their situation. Ryan opened and closed his mouth a few times but nothing came out. He was hoping that since his quick wit got him into this situation it would also get him out of it. A lie, the truth, a story – any other answer besides a long silence and a lump in his throat.

 

“Hadvar,” the female captain addressed the Nord with impatience, “Is he on the list or not?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Hadvar replied with a furrowed brow. “Boy. Do I know you? You look familiar.”

 

“No,” he managed to choke out.

 

The Nord nodded dismissively, eyes going back to the list. “Your name, then.”

 

Ryan bounced around a dozen fake names. He had the potential to be anybody in death. He could create an entire Stormcloak persona. He could pour every ounce of intellect into a rousing speech for the people of Helgen watching this situation but he knew it would do no good. They'd either slit his throat or gag him. It was the same reason Ulfric was silenced.

 

“A child.” The captain's voice was suddenly too close for comfort. A rough finger hooked under his chin and forced him to raise his eyes from their thoughtful dirt-searching. “They recruit them young. Pity. We need a name to send to the Empire, traitor, and I suggest you be quicker about it.”

 

The blonde tugged his chin out of her grip and cast her a fiery glare. “Ryan.”

 

That caught Hadvar's attention once more. “Isn't that the name of Erens Battle-Born's first boy? A strange name like that cannot be common.”

 

“A Whiterun milk-drinker,” the woman snarled.

 

“No,” Ryan lied, looking between them. “I...I know not of who you speak of.”

 

“Captain,” Hadvar addressed her now. “What should we do? He’s not on the list.”

 

“Forget the list,” the captain scoffed. “He goes to the block.”

 

It was his death sentence. He swallowed down the sound of distress that tried to creep up the back of his throat.

 

“A Battle-Born on the block.” The Nord’s jaw tightened but he nodded anyway. “By your orders, Captain.”

 

The woman started toward the block, giving them the illusion of privacy. Hadvar apologized and said something about dying in his homeland but he couldn’t hear it over the roar of blood within his ears. The reality of the situation was falling upon his shoulders and the weight of it was threatening to take his knees out from beneath him.

 

“Follow the captain, prisoner.”

 

Ryan nodded dumbly and went to take a step toward the block. His muscles liquidated and would have fell to his knees if the list-maker had not grabbed him under the arm.

 

“Up, boy,” the Nord demanded, pointing toward the shining silver of the captain’s armor. “One foot at a time. There’s no hurry.” _To your death._

 

Ryan made his way to stand next to Rolaf, taking some small comfort in the brief familiarity. There was a man in Imperial gold and crimson standing before Ulfric. He had the sharp eyes of an Imperial-born and the fine make of his sword would have unnerved those with weaker hearts.

 

“That’s the general,” Rolaf pointed out, teeth exposed like a common wolf.

 

‘ _General Tullius, Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him.’_

 

The general was speaking to the bound Stormcloak, tone almost condescending.

 

“Ulfric Stormcloak,” Tullius addressed him loudly enough for all present to hear. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne. You started this war, plunged Skyrim in chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.”

 

There was a bellow in the distance. A far off, angry beast.

 

“What was that?” one of the soldiers asked, eyes to the sky.

 

The general shook his head. “It’s nothing. Carry on.”

 

“Yes, General Tullius.” The captain gestured at the priestess. “Give them their last rites.”

 

The young Battle-Born's mind was racing at top speed. Ryan’s tongue itched to shout out his protest that the province would never be at peace as long as the Empire had their boot on Skyrim’s throat.

 

The priestess of Arkay raised her hands in the air. “As we commend your soul to Aetheris, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn; our beloved-”

 

A Stormcloak soldier marched to the block with his head held high. “For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with.”

 

Ryan’s lips tightened into a thin, white line. This display of brutality only further fueled the harsh opinion of the Empire yet they thought it was the cure.

 

“As you wish.”

 

“Come on, I haven't got all morning.”

 

Cutting off the head of the Hydra only forced it to sprout three more, did they not know that?

 

“My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

 

This was pointless! This was inhuman! This was-

 

_Thunk._

 

This was some sort of nightmare. They were really doing this. They were killing them. Ryan was no stranger to misery but he and Death had just been acquainted. It was too much, too fast. Hands fell onto his shoulders and shoved him forward to the tune of the crowd shouting for the downfall of the Stormcloaks.

 

“Next: The Nord in rags!” the Imperial captain called.

 

Ryan looked to Rolaf to find the man's eyes heavy with grief. Another rough roar shook the very stones, louder and closer this time. It was different from anything he'd heard before. A feeling came over him that was similar to the energy he felt coming off Ulfric. The horses nearby were startled into restlessness, hooves carving deep lines into the dirt. He could almost smell the upturned dirt from where he stood.

 

“There it is again,” Hadvar stated softly. “Did you hear that?”

 

The captain cut him a glare. “I said – _next prisoner_.”

 

Ryan went. His feet dragged but he knew if he didn't go he'd get a back full of arrows. He wasn't wrong about them trying to make a point. Unfortunately for him, their point would be written in blood instead of bruises. He couldn't help but steal a last look at the great Ulfric Stormcloak. Wasted opportunity. Wasted potential.

 

The axman met his gaze and the eyes within that skull were dead. He didn't care who he killed as long as he was paid. The truth was there for anyone to see it. The captain turned him so he faced Hadva. The man's face was an impassive mask.

 

It seemed as if everyone here was ready to face his death but him.

 

The captain's hand laid flat in the middle of his back. It was broad, solid. She pushed him down to his knees, just as she'd done to the Stormcloak soldier. The block before him stank of death and the surface was slick with fresh blood, the previous soldier's head resting in the basket that his would soon fall into.

 

Curious...would his head bounce off or would it lay the foundation of a nice, neat pile?

 

A foot rested on the back of his head and forced him down, cheek smacking wetly in the congealing puddle. A shudder ran through him. The great Ryan Battle-Born, child prodigy...going out like a snuffed candle in front of a handful of people. It felt cheap. He'd tricked himself into thinking he was meant for something greater when really he would just be executed by his parents’ protective

Empire dozens of miles from his home. Njada. His son.

 

“Rykve,” he murmured, trying to ignore the towering axman. He closed his eyes and thought of his son's golden curls between his fingers. How the boy used to jump into his lap to show him his new toys, babbling away in a strange mixture of gibberish and Cyroldilic. Rykve seemed to always smelled like weeds and he'd never found out why. Did the boy explore while his mother’s back was turned? Had Ryan helped bring another little adventurer int the world?

 

Wasted time.

 

There was another bellow, impossibly close.

 

“What in Oblivion is that?”

 

“Sentries! What do you see?”

 

“It's in the clouds!”

 

There was a sound between a bluster of wind and a bear, only louder. The clang of swords being drawn. What was...?

 

“Dragon!”

 

Ryan snapped his eyes open in time to see a pitch black monster pulled straight from his nightmares. Then heat, and darkness.

 

**-*-**

 

“Get up!”

 

_'Dragonborn.'_

 

“Are you alive, kinsman?”

 

_'You're alright.'_

 

Delicate fingers brushed through his hair, urging him to awake. Ryan’s eyes fluttered open long enough to see a young man kneeling beside him, cinnamon curls falling around his ears, skin translucent and glowing as if lit from within. There were preciously delicate freckles across the bridge of a button nose but he couldn't quite see his eyes.

 

“There is little time!”

 

_'You have great courage to have made it this far. The first stepping stone.'_

 

“Rise!”

 

“Don't go...” Ryan begged, the words finding very little breath to form.

 

_'Your journey has just started.'_

 

Smoke filled his lungs. Ryan doubled over himself as he tried to cough it out, the sounds rough and tearing him up from belly to throat. By the time he realized where he was, the beautiful man was gone. He was in the burning tatters of Helgen with soot on his hands and blood that wasn't his drying on his skin. The blonde pushed himself up onto his knees and with a little leverage he managed to find his footing.

 

“Finally!” Rolaf grabbed him by the arm and shook him a little, peering into his face to make sure he was aware. “I thought you'd left us. Come on, the gods won't give us another chance like this.”

 

“What...I...?” It all snapped back. There was no beheading to be had when the town was in chaos. It was a sign, a gift from Talos. A way to flee. The sky was the color of rust and seemed to be raining flames upon them, great chunks of rocks falling and taking out walls and towers like they were made of straw and sticks.

 

“Madness,” Ryan breathed in awe. “This is unnatural.”

 

“This is all we're going to get,” Rolaf started toward a tower. “Follow me!”

 

There were wounded inside. Ryan wanted to go to them and help as best he could but his hands were still bound. He opened his mouth to request they be removed when he caught sight of Ulfric standing there in the shadows. The man's presence shut him up rather quickly. He had no idea what he was or should be doing; if anyone would know how to proceed, it would be the [Jarl](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Jarl).

 

“Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?” Rolaf asked, strapping a sword he'd procured to his belt.

 

The man's lip curled back. “Legends don't burn down villages.”

 

There was an uproar outside so loud it made the Jarl cringe.

 

“We need to move. Now!”

 

“Up through the tower, let's go!”

 

Ryan gaped. He had a thousand questions and a few requests but he swallowed them down. It was easier to just do as he was told and get out of this wretched city. He followed the Nord up the stone steps, being careful to keep his balance with his hands still tied up in front of him. One of the Stormcloak soldiers waited for them towards the top and was calling out for help to move some rocks out of the way of their escape.

 

_Yol..._

 

Ryan froze. He'd never heard this voice before. It was chilling. The sound reminded him of the sense of dread he used to get from looking into the inky blackness of a deep well that had no visible end. There was power in it, different from Ulfric and different from what he'd heard in his dreams. This sound was old. And it was right outside.

 

“Get back!” Ryan cried, rearing forward and grabbing a fistful of Rolaf's tunic. He dragged the man back down a few steps just before the wall blew out. It was sudden, violent, and two Stormcloak soldiers got buried beneath the rubble. A black snout poked in through the newly made hole.

 

_Toor...Shul!_

 

The voice again. Fire poured inside, flooding the room with heat. Ryan turned his head away for fear of his eyeballs cooking inside his head. The smell of burnt hair and flesh met his nose but he refused to let it get to him. This was not the time to fall apart. He'd shamed himself enough for one day.

 

A plan of honor was well and good until Rolaf all but tossed him out of the building with only a set of vague instructions shouted into his ear.

 

**-*-**

 

Ryan ran as fast as his feet would take him. The throb of his head and knees were ignored in favor of getting through the city. The place was bathed in flame and ruin. Sweat matted his hair, it slicked his skin and made the rags stick and itch.

 

He almost tripped into Hadvar.

 

“Still alive, prisoner?” The man grinned wildly. “Keep close to me if you want to stay that way.”

 

“I can take care of myself.”

 

“With those?” He nodded at the bindings on his wrist.

 

“If you could cut me loose-”

 

Hadvar turned his back on him, hand shooting out to grab a boy out from the wreckage of a house. He shoved him into the arms of another Imperial soldier. “Get him out of here. I'm going to find General Tullius and join the defense.”

 

The man nodded and put his hand on the boy’s small shoulder, giving him a nod. The boy sagged in relief.

 

With little other choice, Ryan blindly followed the Imperial past strewn bodies and burning wreckage. They entered a narrow alley between a high wall and a house. A discarded weapons belt lay near the steps that led to another courtyard.

 

“Stay close to the wall,” Hadvar advised, back against the stone. Ryan eyed the dagger on hooked to the leather and judged his odds. Surely Hadvar would not attack him for simply wanting to be free? He was an untested warrior, he needed his hands. Making a daring decision, the blonde bolted straight for that which would cut his bindings.

 

“Prisoner!”

 

It felt like thunder above his head. The ground shook and the wave of dizziness that came over him took him to his backside. A shadow was cast over the alley, bits of rock and clay falling into his face and hair as giant claws ripped them asunder. The beast was magnificent in only the way that a predator so deadly could be. Surely _this_ was a dragon. There would be no mistake of it. The creature was covered in spikes and scales that radiated a heat like he’d never known. Its wings stretched great lengths away from his body and they looked as if they were poisonous, the ebony of its skin a mimicry of its voice. The timber from before seared through his mind.

 

[ _Yol…Toor...Shul!_ ](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Fire_Breath)

 

Fire erupted from its mighty jaws and burned through two soldiers and the remnants of a house. Once those shooting at it were turned to ash, the beast took flight. Hadvar yelled at him to get up off the ground and he scrambled to obey, mind even more scrambled than before. Dragons were real…this was happening.

 

‘ _Dragonstone.’_

  


“Dear Divines.”

 


	4. Dragons II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin, the Lad Who Dreamed.

**Sorry it's so short - I'm just going with the muses at the moment to get back my writing groove**

* * *

 

 

Winterhold was a barren shell of its former self since the Great Collapse where most of the city fell straight into the Sea of Souls. The waters were dark and icy, an endless choppy mirror to disappear into with a too-far trip from the beach or a slip upon many of the thick ice chunks that laid on top of it. Above it hovered the [College of Winterhold](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/File:SR-place-College_of_Winterhold.jpg), the Mages College, a towering structure built solidly along the cliff. Snow fell nearly all year round to keep a fresh coating on the thick of the snow the blanketed the whole area. This far north was nothing but it. Whether a light flurry or a tundra, it was merciless.

 

From a city to a town, the people who stayed around, had to swaddle themselves in layers and furs to keep their cores warm. They lived in a constant fear of wolves and the rare threat of trolls, the thought of the cold taking them was secondary to being violently ripped apart and devoured before their short lives were through.

 

There was the sound of a heavy ax in wood nearest the College and away from the road. A Lad grunted in exertion as he wielded the weapon, lithe muscles straining and solid from years of hard chores. He was a youngling still, on the cusp of seeing his eighteenth hard winter, but no stranger to real work. He heaved apart another log with a great *woof of effort and split it straight down the middle. He panted and set the ax against the stump so he could wipe his face off on his sleeve. It was cold but he was born in snow, it didn't bother him, and he was sweating under his wrappings.

 

Gavin took a great lungful of chilled air and tilted his head back, eyes falling on the dark stone arches of the College. Blue-lit windows shined with an exotic welcome. They hid secrets that he craved to look upon. Gavin's greatest dream was to work his way into the College, first to clean their floors and show his worth before daring to ask to practice. Magic. It was an inkling within him, a tickling in his gut, present in the way fire started easily for him and what cooled his cider almost instantly to make it easy to drink. His clothes suspiciously didn't tear or wear out despite how rough he was with them, and wine always tasted sweet – sweeter than it should for this far north.

 

Gavin had been an orphan, a stow away on a ship from somewhere much farther north than here. He'd been told he was a waif of a boy with a strange accent that had faded over the years but still gave his voice a musical lilt. The Hariks, a young family at the time, took him in. They raised him well enough but they never treated him like a son. He got beatings every so often but it was better than how some got treated.

 

If only the people in Winterhold didn't hate him quite so much. There were only so few of them here in the half ruined once-city and gossip spread fast. Everyone knew everything about everyone – the good and the bad. They had despised him ever since his master had learned he could slick. The man, Kdjar, had found him hiding in the back hayshed so as not to wake the family as he fingered his newly soaked hole. He'd woken up hot and dizzy and suddenly dripping, terrified and aroused. He had been of age for a change to happen if it were to come upon him. It was rare for a man to show like this, an old blessing of the gods for when women were scarce and wars were more abundant. Kdjar had taken one look at him with his pants around his knees, took one whiff, and told him he was acting like some “rich whore” to get back in the house.

 

Ever since that moment years ago, Gavin had been too scared to touch himself again. It was a filthy habit anyway, he told himself. He wanted it so badly and it made him feel disgusting, dirt beneath the heel of the Seven. He had been told all his life that he would've been prized breeding stock if he'd come from a good family but as an orphan he was little more than a liability with his womb.

 

Gavin gazed at the College and wished himself older, more independent. And  _away_.

 

o0o

 

Gavin had felt his hand start to shake just a moment before it happened. He'd been serving his master mead, the wife and children already asleep in the upstairs loft, and then the pitcher had slipped. Amber liquid splashed over his master and it hadn't sunk in before he got backhanded, the pitcher smacking into the floor and spilling the rest onto the dirt and floorboards.

 

“You with that wretched boy-cunt,” Kdjar snarled, standing up and looking to hit him again. Gavin shrunk away and curled up on himself protectively. Kdjar uncurled his fist to scrub a hand over his weather worn face. “Can't even sell you to anyone within thirty miles of this place. No one wants a burden like you. Scrap of a thing – you'd get taken and ruined and then they'd have a brat to deal with.”

 

Gavin ran to the cellar, heading to the far corner that served as his room. He kept it clean and swept, with a pile of furs and blankets that served as a nest. There were several candles around it – makeshift things made from the burned out stubs that his foster family had tried to throw out. The boy threw himself upon it and curled up, bunching a his rabbit fur pillow up and tucking it under his head. The soft material soaked up his tears and hid his agonized grimace. His sobs were quiet, muffled, for he didn't wish to be beaten again for being “noisy”.

 

As much as they hated him, he hated himself more. He was stuck in a stomach-hollowing limbo in a dead town that rarely saw the clear sun and would one day be buried in snow so deep that it would even swallow the rubble. He wanted a purpose. He wanted the gods to show him a clear path, to clear the snow and shove him what his life was meant to be.

 

A hand drifted down to rub his flat belly and he whined under his breath. His thoughts went to the pregnant wine maiden in the town's only tavern. Her glow, her rosy cheeks and swollen stomach – the way she gently pet the curve and proudly declared that her and her husband were finally having a child after two years of trying.

 

Gavin closed his eyes and imagined himself holding a babe in his arms instead of the bundle of furs. He would keep it warm and close, coddle it, keep it wrapped up tight on his back or swaddled to his chest. His chest...he shuddered at the thought of his nipples getting dark and swollen with milk for a hungry mouth. Oh, how he'd love it. A strong son or a pretty daughter that he'd take from this snow, steal them away to the south where it was warm so they could grow strong in the sun.

 

 _And a father to raise them with me_ , Gavin thought shyly as his rubbing slowed, mind still lost in the haze of a babe. Two, even, a couple. He wanted to watch them play in the grass, little bare feet crushing blades and flower crowns in their hair. He wanted to give them his eyes, but their father’s beauty – whoever they may be.

 

Gavin fell asleep with a rare smile on his face, dreaming of loved little children and a proud father to watch him play with them.

 

 


	5. Dragons III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ray and Gavin technically meet. 
> 
> aka: Emono gets around to describing the Dovs and their coloring

Gavin got a solid smack in the back of the head to awake him up. He whined and flinched away, not daring to look up at his master’s enraged face. “We need meat. Get out there and don’t come back unless you have enough for everyone.”

 

“Y-Yes, sir.” Gavin scrambled to grab his bow and quiver from against the wall before shoving his feet in his thick leather boots, taking off with quick steps to appease his master. He took his cloak off the hook and wrapped it around his shoulders, pulling the hood up and slipping his scarf snug around his nose and mouth. He’d be going away from the town towards the trees in search of birds, they would be the quickest catch.

 

With the snow falling as light as it was and the sun cracking through the clouds, Gavin decided to head down towards the ocean edge. The birds would be pecking at the ice for water and would be easy prey. He walked toward the College and for a moment felt the bold urge to climb the steps and take the test to enter – but his cowardice won out and he ducked past the entrance stairs to descend the steep hill that led to the riverbank. He stalked lightly among the rocks for a while, keeping behind the bushes and staying as quiet as possible. He’d snagged two birds and put them on his belt before he spotted it.

 

A moose.

 

Gavin tracked it with a single-minded hunger, boots barely crushing the thick snow as he followed the beast down the line of the frozen beach. He felt a bolt of fear shoot through him as he got further away from Winterhold. There was dangerous talk of dragons lately, mythical beasts come back to life by magic. Foul, majestic, fire-breathing monsters who would rip a boy limb from limb. They were beasts, dangerous devils and demons with scales and fangs. He didn't believe it, no one really did, but it was still be cautious to stay close to home.

 

No matter how far I wish to run.

 

The moose didn't seem to know of him at first but then the wind picked up the beast raised its head, nostrils flaring, and he was known. The beast took off and so did he, noisily hoofing it in the swelling hunger for meat. The rocks were loose and the water had made everything sharp and dark, smoothed over from time. His knocked bow was in his hands and as he ran he aimed, catching the perfect sight, and he was about to release for the kill when his feet caught on some rough edges.

 

Gavin squawked as he slipped on the rocks and tumbled forward, bow clattering away and quiver spilling messily over the rocks. A few of the arrows escaped into the water and were quickly swallowed. His silly noise morphed into one of pain as he slid on the sharp rocks, gloves nearly slicing on the polished edges and knees driving hard into the gravel. He groaned and curled in on himself, cradling his legs close and trying to rub the hurt away. Blood smeared on his gloves. He'd torn open his pants and there were a few gashes that throbbed hotly despite the snow. His ankle felt wrong, twisted, but it looked okay.

 

The pain hit him all at once and he sniffled loudly, eyes stinging with tears. He covered the worst of the cuts with his gloves and rested his head on them, droplets wetting his lashes before trickling down to soak into his scarf. He was weak, useless. Why did his master send him out like this? He could barely hunt, he was more suited for inside work. He was an excellent shot but didn't make up for his natural gracelessness. The incident with the wine came up in his mind and he whined, curling tighter. If he couldn't hunt or serve inside then what good was he?

 

_Breeding stock, if I'm lucky._

 

The cut off bellow of a moose caught the air and there was a  _ swoosh  _ of wings, though too loud and thick to be a normal bird. He reasoned it was close and ducked his head, barely seeing the heavy shadow that passed over him. Then there was a fleshy thud of a body in snow and he was baffled, frozen stock still. A second thud, much lighter than the first, shocked him out of it. Gavin picked up his head and stared with wide, wet eyes at the slain form in front of him.

 

The moose. But now the beast's throat was slit open, gaping and pouring out ruby red. It gave one last heave and was gone, only meat. Gavin's mouth watered and he rushed at it like someone would steal it away. The moose was fat, healthy, and the horns were fine enough that he could carve arrow tips from them. The fur was coarse but thick and it would make a fine new blanket or cloaks for the master's children. He would sew them up proper arm guards or hats, something. Every bit of this magnificent beast would be used to full capacity.

 

“But...” the word was muffled by his scarf, his brows scrunching up over his curious expression. What could have killed this animal? It almost looked like a knife cut but deeper maybe, more savage. He picked up his head and looked for the beast that could have caused such a death. It took a few heart-clenching moments as he waited for the snow to calm. When the bluster died down there was a figure crouched by the river bank not too far from him.

 

It was a boy, not much older than himself. He had a large, bright smile and a handsome face – smooth cheeks, heavy sun kissed skin, and thick raven curls that fell down over his forehead and nearly hid his eyes. There were only two strange things about the boy. He was in plain clothes, not a fur or a piece of armor to shield him from the harsh wind, plain shoes disappearing into the thick snow. The other?

 

His hands were  _ soaked  _ in blood.

 

Gavin trembled and clung tighter to the animal's fur, shielding himself though he didn't exactly feel threatened. It was survival, self preservation. He swallowed a few times to clear his throat before speaking up. “Hello?”

 

The boy's smile grew wider. Those teeth – there were almost too many, maybe, there was something unsettling and exotic about it. They were overly white and matched the snow. The boy started to move in a sluggish crawl towards the water, waves lapping at his crimson-stained hands and soaking into his clothes. Gavin watched in growing horror as the other disappeared into the choppy, icy water just a little at a time. He thought it a game, a tease, but the other didn't stop.

 

“Don't!” Gavin called, pulling down his scarf to be heard over the wind. “It's freezing!”

 

It was too late. The boy was gone with a heavy ripple of water. Gavin stared dumbly at the ocean water for a sign of the other but there was nothing to be seen. After a few moments, there was nothing to prove he was there at all.

 

 _Who was that?_ Gavin wondered as he fixed his scarf back around his mouth. _What was that? Not human, surely._

 

That night the Lad's dreams were full of fire and a vengeful, hungry beast that lived beneath the waves.

  
o0o  
  


“Where were you?”

 

Ray had tried to sneak back into the cave but he should've known his master would be awake and ready to scold him for sneaking out. This wasn't the first tie he'd slipped from the nest, out from his master's tail or arms, and crept out into the world for one reason or another. Lately, it had been only one reason.  
  


Ray whirled around and put his hands behind his back, still completely cloaked in his human guise. His master was in an inbetween state himself and had his arms crossed over his chest, a strong set to his jaw. Dunahmul (or more fondly, _Daniel_ , as the humans called him, a name not from this part of the world) did not look pleased but he was a magnificent sight, as always. The older Dovah was a wash of crimson and ebony – his true form massive, adult, one Ray aspired to mimic when he was older. The flesh was carved of ivory but the scales were dark and glistening in thick patches along the vulnerable points of his throat, his inner arms, the dips of his hips and across the flat of his chest. They swirled down his waist in a whirl that curved along the inside of his thighs. A shock of dark hair that matched Ray's own but shorter, choppier. Smooth horns grew below his hairline and curled up almost into the locks with their graceful Their eyes matched too in their human forms but Dan's pupils were strange, rusty gold shining around the inky slit. Nails were thick in elegant claws and ivory teeth were sharp but smaller so as not to hang obscenely over his lip. Ray was still practicing that and sometimes his fangs peeked from the seem of his lips.

 

Tall with a great lace of muscle, not quite as big as the Nords who roamed this part of the world but stalwart enough to explain his seemingly endless strength when questioned by Men in the past.

 

Dan came forward and Ray tried to make himself look small, glamour melting away under his belly full of nerves. “I won't ask twice.”

 

“I was out hunting.”

 

“And no game to show for it?”

 

“I...ate it all.”

 

Dan raised a brow at his charge but there was no real anger, only conern. He watched the human veil fall to be replaced with the halfway form they usually took to keep their magic flexing. Their full Dovah forms fit well in the depths of their lair but they had both grown quite used to having human fingers to play with each other. His little Raanyahmid grew even more beautiful as he blended into a terrifying mix of Dovah and Man. All that deliciously tan skin bleeding away under the wave of crimson and gold. His scales were a mix of bright, fresh blood and sun shaded spatters that covered his sweet spots. His temples were pure gold and they hid under his lavish curls. Small claws but cattish fangs kissed his lower lip. His tail was thinner than Dan's own and those bright crimson scales went from his nape and down his spine, and there they collected at the base of his spine to fill out and darken as they spilled down into the long line of his tail.

 

Dan's favorite spot was that between his collar bones, at the front hollow of his throat. The scales there were almost bronze from how dark they'd developed, coppery and smooth to the touch. His mouth sought the spot in his sleep.

 

Dan turned his back to the boy and retreated down into the tunnel, the sun fading the deeper he went while his charge's steps followed him. The few candles they kept lit this time of day bounced light off their scales, and soon they reached the area they'd carved out for their sleeping quarters when they were in these forms. There was a deeper chamber packed with their treasure for when they chose to recline as in their truest Dovah forms but this upper level was packed with the thickest furs and a lavishly overstuffed bed that Dan had made them when they first found this place. There were plenty of trinkets decorating the walls and lining the floor here as well, but the whole room centered around a deep hearth that was nearly always lit by their own fire.

 

It was a nest. One for them, and their young when the time came.

 

“I missed you at my side, little one,” Dan rumbled, taking his charge's hand and leading him to the bed. Ray brightened considerably and eagerly followed, shedding the peasant clothes and crawling onto the bed. He cooed noisily at his master and held open his arms, wanting to make up for how he'd been sneaking out. Dan grinned, adoration sketched all over his face as he followed. He covered the smaller Dovah and laid his forearms on either side of his head, brushing noses as their wings kissed and rubbed together.

 

“Master,” Ray crooned before he took the other's lips.

 

Dan pressed into the kiss with a sigh. One hand danced down the boy's side and trailed over the plump thigh to dip inbetween, thumb brushing the flushed cock that was growing so hard against his belly. The true prize was lower, past his small sack. There was a wet slit there. His charge was young, still small in all ways, but mature enough to mate. Age was nothing to Dov and Dan couldn't quite remember how old Ray was, and he'd never be able to fathom his own age, but he had some growing to do yet.

 

It always took some effort to get his charge open up enough to take him fully. He was fully grown, thick even in his human form, and he never wished to hurt his boy. He would lick and finger and ease inside him, no matter how long it took. He enjoyed his charge in every way, and Dan knew he'd be content simply licking into that joyful mouth for the rest of his days.

 

He slid a finger into that silent heat and swallowed his charge's sweet purr.

 

All thoughts of where Ray had been disappearing to vanished as he let himself fall into pure sensation.

 

* * *

***flails because writing is hard and I can't write anything lately***

 

 


	6. Dragonborn IV

**So this chapter is super boring, the continuation of the first intro part of Skyrim basically. Rewritten main story is all it is and that's unfortunate but it was just sitting around my docs. But I'm still unsure what to write so I want to throw this out**

 

\-----------

 

Hands still tied, he ran for his life. Hadvar guided him through a pocket of Imperials and towards one of the keep. He was about to suggest taking shelter inside when he found himself face to face with Rolaf. The Nord looked in his element, a better sword in hand now.  

  
  


“You damn traitor!” Hadvar snarled. “Out of my way!”

  
  


“We’re escaping, Hadvar. You’re not stopping us this time,” Ralof declared.

  
  


The list-maker cringed. “Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovengarde!”

  
  


The Imperial took off toward the far entrance, glancing back at the Battle-Born expectantly. Everything in Ryan's mind screamed at him to go to go with the Empire, that they would keep him safe and take him back to his family no matter what once he told them his true name. He took a step toward Hadvar but could not take another.

  
  


This man had tried to kill him. This man wrote his name down on a piece of parchment with the intent to put a drop of his blood beside it. Ralof was the one who had tried to give him some comfort in the inevitable. To go with Hadvar was to go with the certainty that he would be back in front of a chopping block before the week was out. He represented everything Ryan hated – compliance, submission, the kind of weakness that came when a country bowed to another.

  
  


Ryan Battle-Born would not bow this day or any other.

  
  


-*-

  
  


Within the safety of the keep, Rolaf slipped a knife through the heavy bindings on the younger man’s wrists. “There you go.”

  
  


Ryan rubbed the ache from his skin. “Much obliged.”

  
  


“You may as well take Gunjar’s gear. He won’t be needing it anymore.”

  
  


He looked to the man’s fallen companion on the floor.

  
  


“I don’t feel right about taking a dead man’s armor. It seems shameful.”

  
  


“I can see the soft of your belly, kinsman,” Rolaf huffed. “They’ve taken everything but your skivvies and given you nothing. Gunjar would want you to have a weapon and some leather. It means nothing to him now.”

  
  


There was still reluctance within him as he knelt down beside the corpse.

  
  


“If all goes well, we’ll get you set up the moment we get to town.”

  
  


It eased Ryan's mind enough for him to work on buckles and ties. It was necessary.

  
  


-*-

  
  


Ryan was digging through a bag on a table within what he could only guess would be some kind of torture room when he spotted it. A black leather bound book with the symbol for the Empire upon it. It struck a chord within him. He checked to make sure Ralof was busy with the two comrades they had run into before he picked it up, flipping open the front cover to read the title.

  
  


_The Book of the Dragonborn_

  
  


_by_

_Prior Emelene Madrine_

_Order of Talos_

_Weynon Priory_

  
  


_Year 360 of the Third Era_

_Twenty-first of the Reign of_

_his Majesty Pelagius IV_

  
  


The Third Era? Pelagius IV? This book was old – older than the tight reign of the Empire upon Skyrim’s reading material, at least. He’d never seen this book before. It was in near perfect condition. One of the Imperials must have confiscated or brought it from Cyrodil. It called to him, like Ulfric and the dragon had. He shoved it away before the others saw it.

  
  


This could be just what he’d been seeking out.

  
  


-*-

  
  


The keep poured into some underground caves. He could not have asked for a better guide than Rolaf. The few Imperial soldiers they came across were nothing against the man’s mighty blows and those of the other Stormcloaks they met with. He procured a bow, arrows, a strong axe, a new pack, and a few pieces of gold scattered no a few tables and left in the pockets of the men that fell under their blades.

  
  


When Rolaf saw him go through an Imperial’s pockets he gave pause. “They will not have need of their other gear, my friend. I would take what I could carry.”

  
  


Ryan eyed one of the Stormcloaks that was prying the helmet off a severed head before stuffing it into their sack. His nose scrunched up in distaste. “I will not need gold that badly.”

  
  


The man shrugged his large shoulders, wiping the blood of a soldier off his sword with a stray rag. “It is a harsh world, my friend.”

  
  


The blonde contemplated it for a moment before reaching for the laces of the Imperial’s bracers. “Surely the gods will not frown too heavily upon a boot or a bracer gone missing?”

  
  


“That’s the spirit, lad!” Ralof laughed, the sound catching off the walls and echoing around them.

  
  


Ryan tucked away the pair of bracers with a small grin on his lips. An enchantment or two would surely make them valuable enough to prove worth-while. He would need gold to buy armor, boots that fit, food, a map, advice, maybe even a better weapon.

  
  


_Divines – know that I am just a man with needs. Forgive this trespass._

  
  


-*-

  
  


Ryan got but one lungful of fresh air before he and his companion were ducking for cover. The black-winged monster tore through the sky above their heads. From what he could deduce it was heading north, toward Whiterun. He sent a prayer to the Divines for his family’s safety.

  
  


“There he goes,” Rolaf observed, hand up to his eyes to block the glare of the sun. “Looks like he’s gone for good this time.”

  
  


“No.” Ryan could feel the bite of the gravel under his fingers and the exhaustion in his limbs but he couldn’t rip his eyes from the disappearing image of the dragon. “This is not the end.” _We will meet again._

  
  


‘ _Dragonborn.’_

  
  


Ryan gasped sharply, eyes clenching shut as the word all but burned through his mind.

  
  


“Are you alright, kinsman?”

  
  


“I’m…I’m fine,” Ryan assured him, voice strained as he rubbed a palm over his chest to try and slow his racing heart. “Just a sharp pain, nothing more. And it’s Ryan.”

  
  


“A strange breed of a name,” Ralof observed good-naturedly, standing and putting his fists upon his hips. “Well, _Ryan._ This mountainside will be swarming with curious Imperials within the hour. You are more than welcome to join me in Riverwood.”

  
  


“Is that nearby?”

 

 

“ ‘Tis. My sister runs the mill there. You can buy fresh clothes and rest in peace there.”

  
  


That sounded almost too good to be true, but he heartily agreed.

  
  


-*-

  
  


There was a break in the trees and the mountains on the other side of the river became truly visible. There was a series of arches carved into the face of one, acting as a backbone down into the heart of the rock. Even from this far he could see there was great skill involved to make such a thing. Ryan tried to think back to his maps and remember what exactly was beside Riverwood but he could not think of the name, only the Nordic symbol for 'crypt' came to mind.

  
  


“What is that, Ralof?”

  
  


“That thing?” the Nord nodded his head toward the great peaks. “That's Bleak Falls Barrow. I never understood how my sister could stand living in the shadow of that place.”

  
  


“She must be used to it.” Ryan followed the man more slowly now, eyes sticking to the spine-like arches. “When distant cousins of mine would visit Whiterun, they would always marvel at Dragonsreach and the Skyforge. Wonders are only wonders when we pay attention to them.”

  
  


-*-

  
  


The Sleeping Giant Inn. It wasn’t much but at least it was clean and the patrons seemed content to keep to themselves. The woman behind the desk, Delphine, seemed welcoming enough for business and the room was his for just a few coins. He locked the door, shed his boots and weapons, and promptly collapsed into the (mostly) comfortable bed. His mind drifted to the actions of his day.

  
  


The people of Riverwood seemed hard working and friendly enough with someone who stood beside one of their own. Rolaf had introduced him to his sister, Gerdur, and her over-eager son Frodnar. The lad was a growing boy but already he had the spirit of Skyrim in his heart, being sent off to watch the south road just in case news of Helgen traveled to the village. His friend explained to Gerdur and his husband what had happened, and pleaded for their safety. After the indignation of the cowardly Imperials wore off (as well as the shock of knowing a living dragon was flying around), his sister heartily agreed to keep them safe and hidden for as long as they needed.

  
  


“I won’t hear otherwise.” Her eyes were kind within her weathered face, so much like her brother. “Any friend of Ralof’s is a friend of mine.”

  
  


She fed them, gave them mead, and that night she even offered them beds.

  
  


“My good lady, I cannot,” Ryan protested between bites of tender rabbit, more than thankful to have a home-cooked meal after fruits and vegetables for so long. “I've eaten your food, I hide in your town, and your brother saved my life. I cannot – no, I _will not_ impress upon you anymore than I already have. I have some money. I shall stay at the inn.”

  
  


“Promise not to go far.”

  
  


“I swear not to leave until you deem it safe.”

  
  


At the present, he was more than happy to keep that promise. The pillow gave way beneath his heavy head and the scratchy blanket reminded him of sleeping in the barn when he was forced to live with his aunt. Rolaf and his family were fellow Nords with hopes of liberation – he could not have asked for better allies. He hoped to find a way to pay them back in full for keeping his presence in the town a secret.

  
  


In the morning he would write to Njada to tell her he was safe, and after he would procure some new armor and (hopefully) a more skillfully made bow. He still needed a map to plot his trip, and now a cape with a hood to help hide the tell-tale sight of his hair from view. There was much still to do. Safety was not enough. He needed to get his journey back on track, even if he didn't know where to start. Leaving Skyrim was not an option anymore, that he knew. There was too much unrest and injustice going on for him to leave his motherland.

  
  


But that was not for tonight. He needed rest too badly to do anything else.

  
  


So Ryan let the buzz of his mind fade out to quiet whispers, and soon exhaustion made his eyes too heavy to keep open anymore. The waking world softened and dulled behind his eyelids. He let himself be carried off on the prayers to the Nine with the hope that the morning would bring a new dawn.

  
  


-*-

  
  


The voice echoing inside his head was not the soft timber of his friend. His dreams were filled with storms of fire and smoke.

  
  


_Yol. Toor. Shul._

  
  


Fire. Inferno. Sun.

  
  


He was close to what he sought. All he had to do was reach out and take it.

  
  


-*-

  
  


Ryan woke the next day more confused than alarmed. The dragon's roaring had followed him into his nightmares. It was nothing to worry about. He chose to lay the images aside and let them fizzle out as vague dreams often tended to do.

  
  


He filled up his day with talking to the townsfolk, the first trickles of dragon-sightings seeping into their stories. He haggled with the town blacksmith, Alvor, and managed to sell all the Imperial gear he’d acquired for a full set of hide armor. It wasn’t quite up to par with that of Adrianne Avenici (the owner of Warmaiden’s in Whiterun), but he couldn’t hope to find anything better for miles.

  
  


“It’s an ill omen to wear the armor of a dead man,” Ryan mused as the man’s wife took some measurements to make sure what they had would fit.

  
  


“Aye, lad, that it is,” Alvor mused, brows pulling together. “Did you do much killing out there?”

  
  


“No, sir. No more than tried to kill me first.”  

  
  


Alvor offered him a fine blade but he couldn’t accept it, choosing a heavier mace instead. It still didn’t feel quite right to hold a sword. They just seemed unbalanced within his grip. The gods would show him the reason soon enough so he decided not to think on it for long. A mace was just a good for bashing in shields.

  
  


Ryan twisted the metal in his hands, the razor edges newly sharpened on the grindstone.

  
  


Or heads, if need be.

  
  


-*-

  
  


The sign was a scale with a wooden arch above it that read: _Riverwood Trader_. Gerdur said it was the best bet to getting all the supplies he needed at a fair price. What Ryan didn't expect was to walk into a hurricane of a conversation. A couple of Breton’s (a man and a woman) yelled at one another over the counter, the candlelight bouncing off their sharp cheekbones and intensifying the embers in their gazes.

  
  


“Well one of us has to do something!” the woman barked, fists to her hips.

  
  


“I said no!” the man shot back just as loud, hand slicing an invisible path through the air. “No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!”

  
  


“What are you going to do then, huh? Let's hear it!”

  
  


“We're done talking about this.” The man's tone was final. He caught glimpse of the young man in his shop and quieted down, a friendly smile twisting his lips. “Oh, a customer. Sorry you had to hear that.”

  
  


Ryan nodded and waved it off kindly. “No apologies needed. I should have left. I didn't mean to intrude.”

  
  


“There's no intruding for paying customers!” the man laughed weakly, trying to put up a good front. “I'm Lucan Valerius. This is my rude sister, Camilla. You're most welcome here at-”

  
  


“ 'Rude'?” she sniped, effectively cutting him off. “I'm concerned! As should you be!”

  
  


“I _am_.”

  
  


“Then act like it!”

  
  


“I'm sorry,” Ryan stepped between them, giving each sibling a disarming smile. “Did something happen?”

  
  


“Yes, we did have a bit of a...” Lucan seemed reluctant to say the words but his sister's sharp gaze spurred him on, “Break-in. But we still have plenty to sell. Robbers were only after one thing.”

  
  


He looked around at all the preserved food and concoctions lining the shelves. “What could they possibly have taken and left all this behind?”

  
  


“It was an ornament of solid gold.” Lucan's hands were held out to show about the size of the object. “Majestic, really. It was in the shape of a dragon's claw.”

  
  


“That does sound very impressive,” Ryan conceded. “I wish you all the best in recovering it.”

  
  


“What about you?” Camilla eased up into his personal space, staring grabbing him by his new belt and tugging hard. It appeared to be some kind of assessment and he passed if her half-grin was any indication. He furrowed his brows and frowned but she didn't back away.

  
  


“What about me, miss?”

  
  


“You seem like a capable warrior.” She nodded. “Yes, you're perfect. A few spiders and a pack of wolves would not take you down. You could help us retrieve our claw.”

  
  


“Oh...I don't know if I should.”

  
  


“But you could,” Lucan jumped in. “I've got some coin coming in from my last shipment. It's yours if you bring it back.”

  
  


“I cannot lie, it would be unwise of me to pass up on gold so far from home,” he replied, prying off the woman's hand and taking a step back, “But I must tell you that I'm in some trouble and I plan to leave town. I don't know how much longer I'll be here.”

  
  


“It would take half a day of your time,” Camilla pressed convincingly.

 

 

Ryan sighed, a gloved hand coming up to run over his face. He wanted to help these people, truly. They seemed like fine folk and a treasure of solid gold was a commodity that most tradesmen used more as a lure than a greedy trophy. They could potentially lose business in such a small place. Camilla was right, he would not lose much time. They were not asking him to do anything potentially dangerous. He'd fought off thieves with his fists and a stick before, an ax and armor would be gratuitous against a small gang of dump apes. All that and something else.

  
  


“I will try,” the Battle-Born agreed reluctantly. “I cannot give you an estimate, but if I find the time and the resources I will retrieve it. In all truthfulness, I do not know where my path goes after I pass the city gates.”

  
  


There’s stares were equal and heavy.

  
  


“But I _will_ try.” Their gazes didn’t waver. “Truly.”

  
  


“Huzzah!” Lucan declared happily, dropping his elbows onto the counter and leaning toward the Nord. “Now, if you’re going to get those thieves, you should head to Bleak Falls Barrow, northeast of town.”

  
  


“I spotted it on my way here. It’s quite prominent.”

  
  


“Still, I’d rather show you the road than have you lose your way,” Camilla stated, finishing off the glass of wine that had been left on the table. “One path leads to Whiterun, the other to the tomb. I’ll lead you there. It will only take a minute.”

  
  


A shadow passed over Lucan’s face.

  
  


“I can find it myself, I’m sure.”

  
  


“But still,” she replied, as if she had already won.

  
  


“Wh – no…I…” Lucan sputtered, “Oh, by the Eight, fine. But only to the edge of town!”

  
  


“I’ll bring her back safely.”

  
  


-*-

  
  


Ryan stood side by side with the clever woman at the bridge on the edge of town, eyes following her finger as she traced the left path in the air. There was indeed two separate paths and the sign post that told where each city resided was unclear in its position.

  
  


“Those thieves must be mad to hide out there. Those old crypts are filled with nothing but traps, trolls, and who knows what else,” Camilla observed. “It’s strange that they only stole the dragon claw. We have plenty of items in the shop worth just as much coin. And Lucan never really told me how he acquired it.”

  
  


“Gold does strange things to people,” Ryan conceded, squinting at the tree-line. “Is that northwest?”

  
  


“Hm, let’s see.” Camilla’s rogue lips pursed as she dug in her satchel, bumping the dagger on her hip before she pulled out a smooth wooden box. Within it there was what looked like painted leather suspended and protected by metal arches. It was sophisticated. There was no doubt that this was a good fresh off the cart from Cyrodil.

  
  


“That’s a fetching compass,” he admired, watching the little arrow spin for a moment before settling in a direction. “Does it use a loadstone?”

  
“Aye, beneath the red arrow.” Camilla lined it up. “Yes. Head northwest and you can’t go wrong. Actually…” She eyed him up and down with a slight smile. “Here. It’s yours if you would like it. An adventurer like you sorely has need of one.”

  
  


The word _adventurer_ rang through his mind as sweet and pure as it had when he was a boy scribbling it down on parchment. He accepted the gift with a spill of words eager to express his gratitude, gazing at it for a moment or two longer before carefully tucking it away in the side pocket of his pack.

  
  


“I know you can’t go now, but we do appreciate you considering this,” Camilla said with a little cock to her hips and a hint of ample chest showing in the line of her blouse. “Bandits are such trouble.”

  
  


“Those who rob and steal livelihoods are scum and will be scrubbed clean off this world as such,” Ryan replied, nodding. “I will talk with my host tonight and I’ll see how the days take me. But I will not forget.”

  
  


“Many thanks are in order.” Her voice trailed off as she stared at the structure. “I hate that they’re corrupting that place.”

  
  


“I really don’t know much about it. We don’t have a lot of those where I’m from.” In truth, he’d never found much reason to study them.

  
  


She gestured towards the arches. “It’s quite old, from what I know. Very few rival its greatness. The ancient Nords built it to worship dragons.”

  
  


“Hmm.” Flashes hit him, like paintings flipping through his mind. A looming figure with horns dark as pitch, a glowing wall, decayed flesh. He had to blink several times to force them out. Was this another message? Was he meant to go in there? Or was it a warning?

  
  


“They say there’s a real bounty hidden there for anyone brave enough to seek it,” Camilla jested lightly, tossing her head towards said tomb.

  
  


Ryan wet his lips, fingers dancing nervously across the hilt of his mace. “I believe there are more lost souls than lost treasure to be found within those walls.”

  
  


-*-

  
  


Ryan feasted once more with his hosts that night. Gerdur had made enough food to feed the four of them and more so. They dug in with gusto. Hod entertained them with the rumors of the Half-Moon Mill being run by vampires and how there were supposed whispers coming down from the Throat of the World. After the bones were picked clean and the mugs had been drained of mead (twice), Gerdur saddled up close to him and laid a hand on his arm.

  
  


“There’s something you could do for me,” she stated lowly.

  
  


Ryan colored from more than drink. “My lady…”

  
  


She grinned briefly. “Not that.”

  
  


“Anything then.”

  
  


“It’s not just for me, it’s for all of us here.”

  
  


Ryan realized rather quickly that the other two men were looking at him with that same heavy-handed stare.

  
  


“The Jarl needs to know if there’s a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless.”

  
  


His full stomach churned unpleasantly. Her fingers dug into his shirt.

  
  


“We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever troops he can,” Gerdur insisted. “If you’ll do that for me, I and the city will be in your debt.”

  
  


“I…I cannot.”

  
  


She didn’t even flinch. “You can.”

  
  


“My friends,” he began slowly, wishing desperately that they could have avoided this, “I am from Whiterun. I’ve met and spoken at length with the Jarl. I could do the things you ask. But…there’s a great many things that stop me.”

  
  


“Like what?” Ralof challenged with a little toss of his head.

  
  


“My family.” Ryan drained the rest of his cup for courage. “My clan, really. I ran from them to start a journey and instead I ended up almost getting beheaded a little more than fifty miles away. I have no honor to return with and no real reason to have gone in the first place.”

  
  


They did not seem overly surprised to hear this news. If anything, they seemed to be impressed. It made him sick to think that these good people would find his high standing a blessing. If only he’d been born to them – hard working tradesmen with calloused hands and worn brows. He felt like thorn sitting amongst them.

  
  


“Battle-Born,” he spat out.

  
  


Hod said nothing but frowned, looking to his confused wife.

 

 

“What about them?” Gerdur insisted.

  
  


“My name is…Ryan Battle-Born.” He grit his teeth, trying not to let the shaking of fingers be seen. “I spoke in favor of Ulfric Stormcloak and they have had very little to do with me since then. I publicly shamed them and I’m afraid that to return would mean my discredit, if that has not already happened. To go back to Whiterun empty-handed would be nothing less than a disgusting failure.”

  
  


“I see,” Rolaf rumbled, thumb tracing the rim of his mug almost thoughtfully. “We would not ask you to return home dishonored.”

  
  


He breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  
  


Gerdur put a finger to his chin and gently turned his head, their eyes meeting. “This is true. We would not force you to do anything that would destroy what home you have. This, what is happening, is bigger than all of us. I only ask now that you stay with us for a few days and truly think it over.”

  
  


“Gerdur,” her brother scolded, “You do not know that clan like I do. It’s full of a bunch of Imperial sympathizers. They might as well be imported from Cyrodil. Their minds have been washed out in Empire colors and there’s very little that can change their minds. I must say, I’m surprised a blue-blood like you would go against them. What did you do?”

  
  


Ryan prickled. “I prayed to Talos in the city courtyard.”

  
  


Hod’s laugh was abrupt enough to startle the young blonde.

  
  


Ralof’s own smile was all teeth. “It takes real stones to do something like that. I commend you.”

  
  


“It was horribly stupid,” Ryan assured him, rubbing the shoulder that had nearly been dislocated after his father had gotten through thrashing him. “And now that I’ve told you my story, I find myself suddenly exhausted. I shall take to the inn, if you don’t mind.”

 

 

“Of course.” Gerdur rose gracefully. “Let me walk you over.”

  
  


-*-*-*-

  
  


He was sitting on a stone alongside a very long, stone cobbled road. There were mountains in the distance and a breeze to catch on the grass, but there were no trees or towns to speak of. The air smelled like rain and the clouds were woven into thick puffs above his head. A few rays of sun managed to break through and stain the ground in golden patches, but otherwise it was as grey as a dull sword. The boulder beneath him was flat and white, smooth to the touch with little cracks along its surface as if it had seen some years.

  
  


Ryan was about to get up and start down the road when he felt someone behind him. It was just the faintest brush of a warm chest against his back, then a pair of hands slid over his shoulders. He froze and groped for his mace but there were no weapons strapped to his back or his belt. Cool lips touched his ear, the gesture somehow soothing him in a way he couldn't describe.

  
  


“Hush.”

  
  


The voice was familiar. The broad backs of those hands and the dark hair upon the arms that laid over his shoulders told him that it was a man, though the low timbre of the word could have gone either way. He relaxed and got a kiss upon his neck for his compliance.

  
  


“You must go to Whiterun,” the man urged him, fingers stretching out to lay upon the blonde's chest. “The Jarl...the wizard...your reason is there.”

  
  


“My family is there,” Ryan sighed, thinking of all the yelling that would take place once he showed his face again around his clan's home. “They'll tear me apart.”

  
  


“Don't you want to find me anymore?” The tone was sad now, as if the other was close to tears and was choking them back. “I know I am unworthy...but I hoped...”

  
  


The hands started to pull away but Ryan grabbed onto them before he could withdraw completely. “Don't. Please. I'll do anything.”

  
  


“You are _so close_.”

  
  


He bit down rather savagely down upon his lip. “You keep saying that. This path is dangerous.”

  
  


“Yes,” the man breathed, a too-hot cheek settling on his shoulder. “But you are so strong. Surely you can go just a few more steps to keep this world from being swallowed whole?”

  
  


“ 'Swallowed'?”

 

 

“Mmm,” the man hummed sadly, “If we are all devoured, I will regret very few things in my life.”

  
  


The man's grip tightened so hard he could feel the blunt pain of his fingers in the dips of his ribs.

  
  


“The most having never met you.”

  
  


-*-

  
  


Ryan nearly ripped the sheets in his haste to wake. The dreamworld of the road and the mountains faded into the distant part of his mind, but the voice and the vice grip of his fingers stayed. He tried to rub the ache from his chest but it ran bone deep where he couldn't touch. His rented room was dark save for the candlelight that trickled in under the door from the main room of the inn and that of the moon from the windows.

  
  


The Nord's panting died off as he caught his breath. It had been terribly vivid – a desperate message from his friend. He leaned over the edge of the bed and flipped open the flap of his pack, digging past his few possessions before he pulled out his new map. He removed the leather tie and unrolled it from his lap. It took his eyes a moment to adjust but after that he could clearly see the little mark he'd put by the arch sketches beside the emblem that represented Riverwood.

  
  


_Could you really be there?_ Ryan wondered silently, thumb tracing the drawing. He would find his friend, he had to, and he would free him from whatever cage he was in. And maybe even put a face and a name to that sweet voice. That man knew something he didn't. Maybe he would be able to explain the dragon and the strange feelings he'd been getting from (what felt like) thin air.

  
  


The man, the voice, was right. He was so close to solving this puzzle – close enough to make his fingers itch. The entire picture was about to fall into place and all it would take was a trip back to the beginning. The place he ran from was the very place he now had to run to.

  
  


Though no one said a word and he didn't quite feel it yet, there was certainly a time restraint and a tension in the air that screamed of urgency.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> My love ballad to the Elder Scrolls universe. Get ready for kinky dragon stuff and magicky sex.


End file.
